Pagina 210 de 1118

Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair,

wrapped in a morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the

fashion of a tiara, which formed a sort of cornice around his

face, and shaded it from the dim light of a little lamp. Two

thick curls which escaped from beneath the cap, two thick

eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft along his chin, all

quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkled visage, might

be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock by moonlight.

"Ah! ah!" was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and

placed them on his book.

"Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?" said

Tony, bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example.

"Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I

am ill?"

"Oh! I am sorry."

"Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why

is this boy with you?"

"For company, Signor Curate."

"Well; let us see."