SUFFERING AND SENTIMENT AT BOLOGNA.--MOONSHINE.--BEST BALM FOR WOUNDS.
They all put up at the same hotel. Buttons was carried in senseless,
and it was long before he revived. The Senator and Dick were quite
exhausted--stiff with fatigue, stiff with wounds.
There was one thing, however, which made their present situation more
endurable. The war in Lombardy made farther progress impossible. They
could not be permitted to pass the borders into Venetia. Even if they
had been perfectly well they would have been compelled to wait there
for a time.
The city was in a ferment. The delight which the citizens felt at
their new-found freedom was mingled with a dash of anxiety about the
result of the war. For, in spite of Solferino, it was probable that
the tide of victory would be hurled back from the Quadrilateral.
Still they kept up their spirits; and the joy of their hearts found
vent in songs, music, processions. Roman candles, _Te Deums_,
sky-rockets, volleys of cannon, masses, public meetings, patriotic
songs, speeches, tri-colors, and Italian versions of "The
Marseillaise."
In a short time the Senator was almost as well as ever. Not so Dick.
After struggling heroically for the first day against his pain he
succumbed, and on the morning of the second was unable to leave his
bed.
The Senator would not leave him. The kind attention which he had
once before shown in Rome was now repeated. He spent nearly all his
time in Dick's room, talking to him when he was awake, and looking
at him when asleep. Dick was touched to the heart.
[Illustration: Used Up.]
The Senator thought that, without exception, Bologna was the best
Italian city that he had seen. It had a solid look. The people
were not such everlasting fools as the Neapolitans, the Romans,
and the Florentines, who thought that the highest end of life was
to make pictures and listen to music. They devoted their energies
to an article of nourishment which was calculated to benefit the
world. He alluded to the famous _Bologna Sausage_, and he put it
to Dick seriously, whether the manufacture of a sausage which was
so eminently adapted to sustain life was not a far nobler thing
than the production of useless pictures for the pampered tastes
of a bloated aristocracy.
Meanwhile Buttons fared differently. If he had been more afflicted
he was now more blessed. The Don seemed to think that the sufferings
of Buttons were caused by himself, or, at any rate, by the eagerness
of the young man to come to the assistance of his sisters. He felt
grateful accordingly, and spared no pain to give him assistance and
relief. He procured the best medical advice in the city. For
several days the poor fellow lay in a very dangerous condition,
hovering between life and death. His wounds were numerous and severe,
and the excitement afterward, with the fatigue of the ride, had made
his situation worse. But a strong constitution was on his side, and
he at length was able to leave his bed and his room.
He was as pale as death, and woefully emaciated. But the society of
the ladies acted like a charm upon him; and from the moment when he
left his room his strength came back rapidly.
He would have liked it still better if he had been able to see the
younger sister alone; but that was impossible, for the sisters were
inseparable. One evening, however, the Don offered to take them to
the cathedral to see some ceremony. Ida declined, but the other
eagerly accepted.
So Buttons for the first time in his life found himself alone with
the maid of his heart. It was a solemn season.
Both were much embarrassed. Buttons looked as though he had
something dreadful to tell; the Señorita as though she had
something dreadful to hear. At length Buttons began to tell the
story of his many searches, pursuits, wanderings, etc., in search of
her, and particularly his last search at Florence, in which he had
grown disheartened, and had made up his mind to follow her to Spain.
At last he came to the time when he caught up to them on the road.
He had seen them first. His heart told him that one of the ladies
was Ida. Then he had lost all control of himself, and had leaped
down to rescue her.
The Spanish nature is an impetuous, a demonstrative, a fiery
nature. The Señorita was a Spaniard. As Buttons told all this in
passionate words, to which his ardent love gave resistless eloquence,
her whole manner showed that her heart responded. An uncontrollable
excitement filled her being; her large, lustrous eyes, bright with
the glow of the South, now beamed more luminously through her tears,
and--in short: Buttons felt encouraged--and ventured nearer--and,
almost before he knew it himself, somehow or other, his arm had got
round a slender waist!
While the Señorita trembled--timidly drew back--and then all was
still!--except, of course, whisperings--and broken sentences--and
soft, sweet......Well, all these were brought to an abrupt close by
the return of the Don and his sister.
As they entered the room they saw Buttons at one end, and the
Señorita at the other. The moonbeams stole in softly through the
window.
"Why did you not call for a light?"
"Oh, it is so pleasant in the moonshine!"
At the end of a few weeks there came the great, the unlooked-for,
the unhoped-for news--the Peace of Villafranca! So war was over.
Moreover, the road was open. They could go wherever they wished.
Buttons was now strong enough to travel. Dick and the Senator
were as well as ever. The news of the Peace was delightful to
the travellers.
Not so, however, to the Bolognese. They railed at Napoleon. They
forgot all that he had done, and taunted him with what he had
neglected to do. They insulted him. They made caricatures of
him. They spread scandalous reports about him. Such is the way of
the world.