"Madonna," was his second venture, when he had recognised the impropriety of his first, "Madonna, I am this moment about to retire—"
Angioletto, whose eyes had attained their fullest stretch of wonder, opened his mouth—but not to speak. He gaped at the lord of the land.
"Madonna—" Borso began once more. Then the other found his voice—
"Alas, my lord Duke, it is Madonna I thought to find. Where is my wife?"
That was Borso's cue to stare.
"Your wife?" he cried, "your wife! Heaven above us, man, why the devil should your wife be in my bed?"
Angioletto, with the deepest respect always, suffered a smile to play askew about his lips.
"Alas, Magnificence," he said, "if I dared I would ask him, why the devil he should be in my wife's bed?"
It was the youth's way to preface his audacities by the assurance that he dared not utter them. But the retort pleased Borso. His eyes began to twinkle.
"Look ye, young gentleman," said he, suppressing his wish to chuckle, "if this is your wife's bed, I am sorry for you, for I give you my word she has not been in it to-night. But I confess I should like to know why your wife has a bed in my house."
Angioletto nodded gravely.
"I should be the last person to deny your Grace's right to all information. Bellaroba is my dear wife's name, her country is Venice, her duties are to be about Madama Lionella's person.
