 mould that he was
cast in.—First of all,” she continued, raking up the embers in the
scaldino over which she was warming her hands, “there is that poor
old papà, who, with his obstinacy and prejudice, has ruined himself
by lawsuits. His celebrated _processo_ against his brothers, I daresay
you have already heard of: it lasted twenty-five years, because either
side, whenever sentence was given in favour of its opponent, appealed
to some other court, which, under our happy system, can annul the
judgment previously pronounced. At last, this worse than siege of Troy
drew near its close. The case had been brought before every tribunal
in the Roman States, and was finally submitted by the last defeated
party, papà's brothers, to the supreme court in Rome—the conclusive
one of appeal in such instances. My Alessandro was there, awaiting
the result, but comparatively with little anxiety, so confident was
he of success. _Poveretto_, he was too good. Had he known me then, I
would have taken care things should turn out differently! The night
before the judgment was to be pronounced, he was privately warned that
unless he offered a large bribe to one of the prelates of the Rota,
before whom the suit had been pleaded, it would be given against him;
that the other side had bid high, and all he could do was to outbuy
them! 'Bah! bah!' he said; 'this monsignore whose influence will have
so much weight with the other _uditori_ in our cause to-morrow is
above all venal motives: he is too high in the church.' (He was one
of those ecclesiastics, my dear, who wear violet stockings, and talk
so sweetly to your fair compatriots in Rome.) 'O no,' he reasoned with
his heart, _da galant'uomo_, 'the thing is impossible: it is merely a
trick of the enemy,'—and so went to sleep without any misgiving. The
next day”—snapping her fingers expressively—“he found out his mistake,
and the famous _causa_ was irrevocably lost! Poor old papà—they tell me
he has never been the same man since: the very want of the accustomed
excit