"Well done!" thought Pasotti, adding these remarks to what the farmer had said, and concluding he was on the track at last. At the same time he shrugged his shoulders incredulously. Signor Giacomo might perhaps be aware of what was going on in the moon, but that was all; he never knew anything else. Maria insisted, and the old fox began to press her with questions, beating cautiously about the bush; but he found her obdurate, and presently he saw that he should have his labour for his pains, and that he must be satisfied with that one bit of information. He became silent, and half satisfied, half preoccupied, returned to the room where Don Giuseppe was explaining to Signora Barborin, by means of appropriate gestures, that Maria was going to bring her something to eat. In fact the woman appeared presently with a square, glass jar, full of brandy-cherries, a renowned specialty of Don Giuseppe's, who was in the habit of offering them solemnly to his guests, in his own peculiar Italian:
"Allow me to offer you something! Will you try a few of my cherries? Magara con un tochello di pane? Perhaps with a slice of bread?" And then, lapsing into dialect once more: "Maria, tajee gio un poo de pan—cut off a bit of bread."
Signora Barborin feasted on bread alone, following the advice of her satanic husband, who himself took cherries without bread. Then they went away together, and she was permitted to return to Albogasio, while the Controller set off in the direction of Casa Gilardoni.
"That Pasotti is a rogue," said Maria when she had bolted the street-door.
"He is not only a rogue, but an extra big rogue! A bargnif!" Don Giuseppe exclaimed, remembering the hook; and by the application of the dialect title of "Bargnif," which means the arch-fiend, considered in the light of his great cunning, these two mild beings found relief for their feelings, and a compensation for so many things given unwillingly: courtesies, smiles and cherries.
Professor Gilardoni was reading perched on his belvedere in the kitchen-garden, when he caught sight of Pasotti coming towards him behind Pinella, between the rows of beets and turnips. He had little liking for the Controller, with whom he had exchanged only one or two calls, and who had the reputation of being a tedescone, a rank German. Nevertheless, being inclined to think the best of those with whom he was only slightly acquainted, he found no difficulty in extending to him the same cordial courtesy which it was his habit to show to every one. He went to meet his guest, velvet cap in hand, and after a skirmish of compliments which proved an easy victory for Pasotti, Gilardoni returned to the belvedere with him.
Pasotti, on the other hand, felt a lively dislike for the Professor, not so much because he knew him to be a Liberal, as because, though Gilardoni did not go to Mass as often as he himself did, he lived like a Puritan, loving neither the table nor the bottle, neither tobacco nor certain loose discourses. Moreover he did not play tarocchi. One evening, when talking in the kitchen-garden with Don Franco, of the tremendous bouts of eating and drinking which Pasotti and his friends often celebrated in the taverns of Bisnago, the Professor had said something which was overheard by the big curate, one of the gluttons, whose boat, in which he himself sat fishing, happened to be gliding along very softly, close to the walls. "Miserable knave!" the most worthy Controller had exclaimed when the words were repeated to him, his face wearing the expression of a bargnif bilioso, of Satan with a bilious attack. The exclamation had been followed by a contemptuous snarl, after which the Controller spat protestingly. This, however, did not prevent him from overflowing on the present occasion with excuses for having unduly postponed his visit, nor from immediately spying out the volume resting on the rustic table of the belvedere. Gilardoni saw him glance at it and, as the book in question was one of those forbidden by the government, he took it up almost instinctively as soon as he had started the conversation, and rested it on his knee in such a manner that Pasotti could not read the title. This precaution disturbed Pasotti, who was just then praising the little villa and the garden in all their particulars, and in the tone best adapted to each part; the beets, with amiable familiarity, the aloes, with serious and frowning admiration. An angry light flashed in his eyes, and then disappeared.
"Fortunate man," he sighed. "If my affairs would permit it, I myself should like to live in Valsolda."
"It is a peaceful spot," said the Professor.