As the man deposited Giovanni's soup before him, he spoke.

A certain liberty was always granted to Pasquale; Italian servants are members of the family, even in princely houses.

Never assuming that confidence implies familiarity, they enjoy the one without ever approaching the latter.

Nevertheless it was very rarely that Pasquale spoke to his masters when they were at table.
"I beg your Excellencies' pardon--" he began, as he put down the soup-plate.
"Well, Pasquale ?" asked old Saracinesca, looking sharply at the old servant from under his heavy brows.
"Have your Excellencies heard the news ?" "What news?
No," returned the Prince.
"The Duca d'Astrardente--" "Well, what of him ?" "Is dead." "Dead!" repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that echoed to the vaulted roof of the dining-room.
"It is not true," said old Saracinesca; "I saw him in the street this morning." "Nevertheless, your Excellency," replied Pasquale, "it is quite true.

The gates of the palace were already draped with black before the Ave Maria this evening; and the porter, who is a nephew of mine, had _crepe_ upon his hat and arm.