“Oh, you wicked pigeon!” said Tito, pinching her cheek; “those are your longings, are they? What have you to do with carnivals now you are an old woman with two children?”
“But old women like to see things,” said Tessa, her lower lip hanging a little. “Monna Lisa said she should like to go, only she’s so deaf she can’t hear what is behind her, and she thinks we couldn’t take care of both the children.”
“No, indeed, Tessa,” said Tito, looking rather grave, “you must not think of taking the children into the crowded streets, else I shall be angry.”
“But I have never been into the Piazza without leave,” said Tessa, in a frightened, pleading tone, “since the Holy Saturday, and I think Nofri is dead, for you know the poor madre died; and I shall never forget the Carnival I saw once; it was so pretty—all roses and a king and queen under them—and singing. I liked it better than the San Giovanni.”
“But there’s nothing like that now, my Tessa. They are going to make a bonfire in the Piazza—that’s all. But I cannot let you go out by yourself in the evening.”
“Oh no, no! I don’t want to go in the evening. I only want to go and see the procession by daylight. There will be a procession—is it not true?”
“Yes, after a sort,” said Tito, “as lively as a flight of cranes. You must not expect roses and glittering kings and queens, my Tessa. However, I suppose any string of people to be called a procession will please your blue eyes. And there’s a thing they have raised in the Piazza de’ Signori for the bonfire. You may like to see that. But come home early, and look like a grave little old woman; and if you see any men with feathers and swords, keep out of their way: they are very fierce, and like to cut old women’s heads off.”