“Is it my turn? Is it my turn?” replied he, with an idiotic smile, and then stood with his mouth open.
Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still more afflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheld advancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio. His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had not escaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examined his person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognised Renzo with much surprise.
“Is it he, indeed?” thought he, and raised his hands with a movement of wonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling in his sleeves, which before could hardly contain them.
Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he had quitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his curate.
“You here! you!” cried Don Abbondio.
“Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?”
“How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if she is still in this world. But you——”
“And Agnes, is she living?”
“Perhaps she is; but who do you think can tell? she is not here. But——”
“Where is she?”