“I cannot believe that till I have seen it,” said Testaferrata.
“You need not shake your head, marchese,” she retorted; “it is as true as that we are all sitting here. As for ourselves, nobody forced us to sell our corn: so, although to a certain degree we have been dupes, I see no particular cause of complaint. But it is the juggling, the pretence of sparing the country's resources, only to drain them tenfold more than by legitimate commerce, which it stirs my bile to contemplate! And if the coming harvest is _not_ plentiful, and the price of bread rises in the autumn, what will become of the miserable population, already poor enough?”
The entrance of another personage at this moment gave an opportune turn to the conversation. The new-comer was a handsome, graceful young man about thirty, with an ease and sprightliness of manner that was remarkably opposed to the formality and ceremoniousness of those who had previously appeared. He was hailed with evident pleasure by the whole società; and the marchesa, with an exclamation of joy, gave him her hand to kiss, and inquired what good-fortune had sent her dear Checchino (the diminutive of Francesco) down from Rome.
“I am only here _di passaggio_, dear lady! My duty summons me to Ancona, to await our grand-master who is expected there next week from Venice; and my affection prompted me to leave Rome a few days earlier than necessary, that I might stop at Macerata with my friends.”
While the marchesa asked half a dozen questions in a breath about her Roman acquaintances, Alessandro, who had not yet gone out, told me, _sotto voce_, that this Checchino was a young cousin of theirs, a knight of Malta, whom they were all very fond of.
“A knight of Malta?” I answered, surveying him with increased interest. “I had fancied the order no longer existed.”
“No more it ought, to say the truth. You should hear Gentilina rave about it,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and emitting a sibilating sound from his lips, to denote the excess of her eloquence; “and I cannot deny that she has reason. It is _un voto iniquo_, a wicked, unnatural vow—an order which, if I were Pope, I would abolish the very first hour of my reign. The knights of Malta are rich; they have large revenues: Checchino receives one thousand dollars a year (£200), and has his apartments rent free in the palace of the Order in the Via Condotti in Rome, besides other advantages; so, for a single man, he is amply provided for. Then it is a distinction in society; only members of the best families are admitted; and a _cavaliere di Malta_ is fit company for kings. But he cannot marry: he is bound by a vow as irrevocable as that of priests or friars, although exposed to far greater temptations; for he may go to every ball, theatre, or concert in Rome, or wherever he may be, without censure. He dances, he dresses in the height of fashion, he pays court, and yet he cannot marry—anything but that! What will you have? Gentilina has too much justice in all she says!”