"de Musset, Alfred - Tizianello" - читать интересную книгу автора (Musset Alfred De)

When the young man had turned the box a hundred different ways, examined the
purse, and again looked at the quay, at least he saw clearly that he could
discover no more. "I must admit," he thought, "that this gift is peculiar, but
is cruelly ill-timed. The advice I am given is good, but it is too late to tell
any one he is drowning, when he is at the bottom of the Adriatic. Who the devil
can have sent me this?"
Pippo had easily recognized that the negress was a servant. He began to rack his
brains as to who was the woman, or the friend, likely to send him this present,
and as his modesty did not blind him, he persuaded himself that it was more
likely to be a woman than one of his friends. The purse was of velvet,
embroidered with gold. It seemed to him that it was too delicately made to have
come from any store. So he reviewed in his mind the most beautiful women in
Venice, then those who were the opposite. But here he stopped and wondered what
he could do to find out who had sent him the purse. Thereupon, he dreamed most
deep and sweet dreams: more than once he thought he had guessed. His heart
throbbed while he was doing his best to recognize the writing. There was a
Princess of Bologna who formed her capital letters in this way, and a beautiful
lady of Brescia whose writing was very similar.
Nothing is more disagreeable than an unpleasant idea suddenly gliding in among
dreams of a like nature. It is just as if, while walking in a field of flowers,
one stepped on a serpent. And it was just what Pippo felt when he suddenly
remembered a certain Monna Bianchina, who latterly had particularly worried him.
With this woman he had had an adventure at a masked ball, and although she was
pretty, he felt no love whatever for her. Monna Bianchina, on the contrary, had
suddenly fallen in love with him, and she had even forced herself to perceive
love where, in reality, there was but politeness. She attached herself to him,
wrote often and overwhelmed him with tender reproaches. But, on leaving her one
day, he had sworn never to return, and he kept his word scrupulously. So he
began to think that Monna Bianchina might well have made him a purse and sent it
to him. This suspicion destroyed his gaiety and the illusions which buoyed him
up. The more he reflected, the more likely he thought this supposition. Out of
temper, he closed his window and decided to go to bed.
But he was unable to sleep. In spite of all the probabilities, it was impossible
for him to give up a doubt that flattered his vanity. He continued involuntarily
to dream. He wished to forget the purse and to think no more about it: he wanted
to forget the very existence of Monna Bianchina. Nevertheless he had drawn the
curtains and had turned his face toward the wall so as not to see daylight.
Suddenly he leaped out of bed and summoned his servants. He had suddenly thought
of something, simple enough, that had hitherto escaped him. Monna Bianchina was
far from rich. She had but one servant and this servant was not a negress, but a
large girl from Chioja. How had she on this occasion been able to obtain this
unknown messenger whom Pippo had never seen in Venice? "Blessed be your black
skin," he cried, "and the African sun that colored it." And without waiting
longer, he called for his doublet and ordered his gondola.
CHAPTER II
HE had resolved to call upon the Signora Dorothee, wife of Pasqualigo, the
advocate. This lady, respected on account of her years, was one of the richest
and most intelligent ladies of the republic. Besides, she was Pippo's godmother,
and as there was no one of any distinction in Venice whom she did not know, he
hoped she might help to fathom the mystery that surrounded him. Still, he