RITTA. Yes, forsooth: There's something terrible about the man. Ugh! if he touched me, I should turn to ice. I wonder if Count Lanciotto looks--
GUIDO. Ritta, come here. [_Takes her apart._
GUIDO. 'Twas my command, You should say nothing of Count Lanciotto.
GUIDO. 'Tis well. Some years ago, My daughter had a very silly maid, Who told her sillier stories. So, one day, This maiden whispered something I forbade-- In strictest confidence, for she was sly: What happened, think you?
GUIDO. She did not like it. I shall keep that pot Ready for the next boiling.
RITTA. Saints above! I wonder if he ate her! Boil me--me! I'll roast or stew with pleasure; but to boil Implies a want of tenderness,--or rather A downright toughness--in the matter boiled, That's slanderous to a maiden. What, boil me-- Boil me! O! mercy, how ridiculous!
MESSENGER. Letters, my lord, from great Prince Malatesta. [_Presents them, and exit._
GUIDO. [_Aside._] Hear him, ye gods!--"from great Prince Malatesta!" Greeting, no doubt, his little cousin Guido. Well, well, just so we see-saw up and down. [_Reads._] _"Fearing our treachery,"_--by heaven, that's blunt, And Malatesta-like!--_"he will not send His son, Lanciotto, to Ravenna, but"_-- But what?--a groom, a porter? or will he Have his prey sent him in an iron cage? By Jove, he shall not have her! O! no, no; _"He sends his younger son, the Count Paolo, To fetch Francesca back to Rimini."_ That's well, if he had left his reasons out. And, in a postscript--by the saints, 'tis droll!-- _"'Twould not be worth your lordship's while to shut Paolo in a prison; for, my lord, I'll only pay his ransom in plain steel: Besides, he's not worth having."_ Is there one, Save this ignoble offshoot of the Goths, Who'd write such garbage to a gentleman? Take that, and read it. [_Gives letter to_ CARDINAL.
CARDINAL. I have done the most. She seems suspicious.
GUIDO. No, my child, I am but vexed. Your husband's on the road, Close to Ravenna. What's the time of day?
FRANCESCA. But I do not. Poh! to be given away, Like a fine horse or falcon, to a man Whose face I never saw!
GUIDO. Ritta, run down, and see if my great pot Boils to your liking.
RITTA. [_Aside._] O! that pot again! My lord, my heart betrays me; but you know How true 'tis to my lady. [_Exit._