s. Franco reflected
that if he went down he would be obliged to offer some apologies, and he
preferred not to make his appearance. "You should have smashed the plate
on his face!" the prefect called up to him, his hands framing his mouth.
"You should have smashed it on his face!"

Then he turned away, and Franco saw the Carabellis' boatman go down to
the shore to prepare the boat. He left the window, and returning to the
thoughts which had occupied him first of all, he opened his chest of
drawers, and stood absently contemplating an embroidered shirt front,
where certain small diamond studs his father had worn at his own
wedding, were already sparkling. He disliked the idea of going to the
altar without some outward sign of festivity, but of course, this sign
must not be too apparent.

In the iris-scented chest of drawers everything was arranged with that
order which denotes a cultured spirit, and no one was allowed to touch
its contents save Franco himself. But the chairs, the writing table, the
piano, were heaped with such disorder that it would seem as if a
hurricane of books and papers had swept in at the two windows. Certain
law books were slumbering under an inch of dust, but not a single leaf
of the little gardenia, growing in a pot on the sill of the east window,
showed a speck of dust. These indications were sufficient to suggest the
whimsical rule of a poet. A glance at the books and papers would have
given conclusive proof of this.

Franco was passionately fond of poetry, and was a true poet in the
exquisite delicacy of his instincts. As a writer of verse he could be
ranked only as an indifferent amateur, wanting in originality. His
favourite models were Foscolo and Giusti. He worshipped them fervently,
and pillaged them both, for his genius, which was both satirical and
enthusiastic, was not capable of creating a style of its own, and must
content itself with imitating others. It is only fair to remark that
young men in those days generally possessed a classical culture such as
has since become most exceptional, and that through the classics
themselves they learned to respect the art of imitation, as a
praiseworthy and virtuous practice.

Franco liked to improvise on the piano with some of these verses before
his eyes. Even more devoted to music than to poetry, he had himself
purchased this piano for one hundred and fifty _svanziche_, from the
organist at Loggio, because the poor Viennese instrument, bel