薪酬预算与年度调薪dtyu

小编❥(^_-)：xcls4532   gtwj67

薪酬预算与年度调薪dtyu

唯❤：xcls4532   唯❤：gtwj67

唯❤：xcls4532   唯❤：gtwj67

小编❥(^_-)：xcls4532  gtwj67

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dealt her the night before. The first came from the impresario, who told her, with tearful voice, that the affairs of the theatre had gone so badly of late that he was obliged—how much against his will Iddio knew—to dispense with her services. The second blow came after the performance, when she was eating polenta and birds with Signor Di Bello. She had broached the subject of a wedding ring, only to have him dash her hopes with a roar of laughter that shook the caffè. The rich husband failing and her stage career closed, she decided to tide over present difficulties by accepting Bertino’s offer of a situation as wife. Though he had promised her a home in Casa Di Bello, she was too shrewd not to perceive that he would find it a promise [Pg 96]hard to make good. But there was another prize whereon she had set her purpose.

She was madly addicted to the photograph habit. The only genuine emotion of which her nature seemed capable was the one of delight she evinced when beholding a picture of herself in some new pose. In Naples a good part of her earnings as bottle-washer in a wine house had gone for portraits; and the passion still clinging to her, she had begun to mortgage her salary at the theatre to a Mulberry photographer. In two days she had posed three times, and brought each set of the tintypes to the grocery to show them to Bertino. At sight of them he rolled his eyes, clasped his hands, and exclaimed:

“Ah, how beautiful! How sympathetic!”

“It would make a fine bust, neh?” she would add, but to this Bertino always returned a decisive no. Once she showed him an old solar print that was taken in Naples. It portrayed her in bare shoulders, with a [Pg 97]lace mantle over her head and eyes looking soulfully at the moon. This was her favourite. “In America,” she declared, “they could not make a ritratto like that.” But with all her pictures there remained a gnawing in the stomach of her vanity—a hunger that would not be allayed since the moment that he told her about the bust. She wanted to see herself in marble.

It was understood between them that at the meeting this afternoon they would settle the marriage question once and for all; Bertino told himself it would be settled for life or death. On his way to the caffè he encountered Carolina, and she stunned him with the news of her coming departure for Italy.

“To-night I go aboard,” she said. “Thus I shall not miss the ship and have to wait five weeks for another, as Father Nicodemo did.”

With thrift-prodding anxiety Bertino walked on, thinking out a plan for turning her voyage to the advantage of himself and [Pg 98]Armando. The letter he meant to write, and its inclosure of a portrait of the President’s wife, had assumed in his mind a boundless importance. It would be a packet far too valuable for intrustment to the ordinary mail, and registering letters to Europe he had found, on inquiry of Banker Tomato, to be a costly business; nor was it any too safe, according to the same authority. Aunt Carolina was going to Cardinali; why not send it by her? With her own hands she could deliver the precious missive to Armando. Nothing could be safer or cheaper. But there was not a moment to lose if she went aboard to-night.

Thus it had come about that when Juno entered the caffè she found Bertino writhing in the travail of chirography. Before him on the table lay a photograph of the First Lady of the Land. She checked an impulse to catch it up and tear it to shreds.

Taking a chair by the table she watched him while he wrote. When he had finished the letter he read it over slowly, then took [Pg 99]up the picture of the President’s wife to fold the written sheet around it and place it in the envelope.

“Bah!” she said. “You talk of love. What love! Why don’t you send this picture for the bust instead of that one? Am I not more beautiful?” She drew from her skirt pocket her favourite portrait—the one that showed her gazing wistfully at the moon.

“Anything but that,” he answered. “The next one shall be yours. I swear it, if you will swear to be my wife. Ah, mia preziosa, in this letter there is a fortune for me—for us both. Don’t you see the fine idea it is to have a bust made of such a grand signora? It will make a furore tremendo in America.”

He had put the letter and the picture in the envelope, and in another instant would have sealed it, but Juno sprang to her feet and pointed to the door, crying:

“Quick! Go stop him! That man with the brown hat—my cousin! He has just passed. I must see him. Quick, Bertino!”

[Pg 100]

He started for the door, but hardly had he reached it before she snatched the envelope from the table, took out the photograph of the President’s wife and put in the one of herself. Bertino ran back and forth in search of the myth with the brown hat, and at length returned, grumbling that no such person was in the street.