She thought he went to the attic to watch how Luca painted, and
loved him more than ever for that, but knew in the hopelessness of
her heart--as Luca also knew it in his--that the good and gallant
youth would never be able to create anything that would go as the
duke's gifts to the Gonzaga of Mantua. And she did care for Luca!
She had spoken to him but rarely indeed, yet passing in and out of
the same doors, and going to the same church offices, and dwelling
always beneath the same roof, he had found means of late for a
word, a flower, a serenade. And he was so handsome and so brave,
and so gentle, too, and so full of deference. Poor Pacifica cared
not in the least whether he could paint or not. He could have made
her happy.
In the attic Raffaelle passed the most anxious hours of all his
sunny little life. He would not allow Luca even to look at what he
did. He barred the door and worked; when he went away he locked
his work up in a wardrobe. The swallows came in and out of the
unglazed window, and fluttered all around him; the morning
sunbeams came in, too, and made a nimbus round his golden head,
like that which his father gilded above the heads of saints.
Raffaelle worked on, not looking off, though clang of trumpet, or
fanfare of cymbal, often told him there was much going on worth
looking at down below.
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