III
It was here that I met Zabetta.
The heavy portière swung open, and a young girl stepped from the darkness behind it into the sunshine.
I saw a soft face, with brown eyes; a plain black frock, with a little green nosegay stuck in its belt; and a small round scarlet hat.
A hideous old beggar woman stretched a claw towards this apparition, mumbling something. The apparition smiled, and sought in its pocket, and made the beggar woman the richer by a soldo.
I was twenty, and the April wind was magical. I thought I had never seen so beautiful a smile, a smile so radiant, so tender.
I watched the young girl as she tripped down the church steps, and crossed the piazza, coming towards me. Her smile lingered, fading slowly, slowly, from her face.
As she neared me, her eyes met mine. For a second we looked straight into each other’s eyes....
Oh, there was nothing bold, nothing sophisticated or immodest, in the momentary gaze she gave me. It was a natural, spontaneous gaze of perfectly frank, of perfectly innocent and impulsive interest, in exchange for mine of open admiration. But it touched the wildfire in my veins, and made it leap tumultuously.