“Ah! there is great news truly,” said the merchant, dismounting, and leaving his horse in the care of a boy. “But,” continued he, entering the house with the company, “perhaps you know by this time better than I do.”
“Truly, we know nothing.”
“Is it possible?—Well, you will hear fine news, or rather bad news. Eh! host! is my bed unoccupied? It is well. A glass of wine, and my usual dish. Quick, quick! because I must go to bed early, in order to rise early, as I must be at Bergamo to dinner. And you,” pursued he, seating himself at the table opposite to Renzo, who continued silent and attentive, “you know nothing of the mischief of yesterday!”
“We heard about yesterday.”
“I knew that you must have heard it, being here always on guard to watch travellers.”
“But to-day? What has been done to-day?”
“Ah! to-day! Then you know nothing of to-day?”
“Nothing at all. No one has passed.”
“Then let me wet my lips, and I will tell you what has happened to-day.” He filled the glass, swallowed its contents, and continued: “To-day, my dear friends, little was wanting to make the tumult worse than yesterday. And I can hardly believe that I am here to tell you, for I had nearly given up all thoughts of coming, that I might stay to guard my shop.”
“What was the matter, then?” said one of his auditors.