“Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair.
“How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Some dreadful accident has happened.”
“Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing, or something I cannot tell.”
“That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your health? Who will give you advice?”
“Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my wine.”
“And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?” said Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.
“Give here, give here,” said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.
“Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is has happened to my master?” said Perpetua, standing upright before him, with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as if to extract the secret from his eyes.
“For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your pother; this is a matter that concerns—concerns my life.”