“Would you cross the bridge of Cassano, or the ferry of Canonica?”
“Where are they?—I ask simply from curiosity.”
“Ah! I name them because they are the places chosen by honest people, who are willing to give an account of themselves.”
“That is right. And how far are they?”
“It must be about six miles.”
“Six miles! I did not know that,” said he. “But,” resuming an air of indifference, “if one wished to shorten the distance, are there not other places, where one might cross?”
“Certainly,” replied the host, looking at him with an expression of malignant curiosity, which restrained Renzo from any further enquiry. He drew the dish towards him, and looking at the decanter the host had put on the table, said, “Is this wine pure?”
“As gold. Ask all the inhabitants of the village, and hereabouts. But you can judge yourself.” So saying, he joined the other customers.
“Curse the hosts!” said Renzo, in his heart. “The more I know of them, the worse I find them.”
He began to eat, listening at the same time to the conversation, to learn what was thought, in this place, of the events in which he had acted so principal a part; and also to discover if there were not some honest man among the company, of whom a poor youth might ask his way without fear of being compelled in return to tell his business.