Madelon dwelt at great length on their last winter
at Florence; she loved Italy, she said; she liked it better
than France or Belgium, and Florence was such a beautiful
place; had Monsieur Horace ever been there? There were such
splendid churches, and palaces and galleries, with such grand
pictures and statues; the American used to take her to see
them. Papa had several friends there who knew a great deal
about pictures, who were artists indeed; she used to go to
their studios sometimes, and she liked hearing them talk. And
then there were the fetes and processions, and the country
people in such gay dresses, and all with such a blue sky and
such bright sunshine; and then the Sundays! very often she and
papa would go out into the country to some inn where they
would breakfast and dine; ah! it had been so pleasant. "I
shall never be so happy again," sighs Madelon.
The warm, glowing, picturesque Italian life had, as we know,
forcibly seized her imagination, her eyes shone with delight
as she recalled it, and, almost involuntarily in describing
it, she made use of the soft words and phrases of the Italian
tongue, which with the ready talent she possessed for
languages, she had caught up, and spoke fluently.
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