The information was
gladly enough given; and, punctually to the appointed time,
Brigida arrived in Mademoiselle Virginie's little sitting-room.
Advancing with her usual indolent stateliness of gait, the
Italian asked after her friend's health as coolly, and sat down
in the nearest chair as carelessly, as if they had not been
separated for more than a few days. Mademoiselle Virginie laughed
in her liveliest manner, and raised her mobile French eyebrows in
sprightly astonishment.
"Well, Brigida!" she exclaimed, "they certainly did you no
injustice when they nicknamed you 'Care-for-Nothing,' in old
Grifoni's workroom. Where have you been? Why have you never
written to me?"
"I had nothing particular to write about; and besides, I always
intended to come back to Pisa and see you," answered Brigida,
leaning back luxuriously in her chair.
"But where have you been for nearly a whole year past? In Italy?"
"No; at Paris. You know I can sing--not very well; but I have a
voice, and most Frenchwomen (excuse the impertinence) have none.
I met with a friend, and got introduced to a manager; and I have
been singing at the theater--not the great parts, only the
second. Your amiable countrywomen could not screech me down on
the stage, but they intrigued against me successfully behind the
scenes. In short, I quarreled with our principal lady, quarreled
with the manager, quarreled with my friend; and here I am back at
Pisa, with a little money saved in my pocket, and no great notion
what I am to do next.
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