"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! What is that you say?... I know nothing.... Oh Lord! The Imperial and Royal Commissary?... I assure you I can't see what for! ... apff!"
"Certainly," Pasotti repeated. He was waiting for a word that should enlighten him, and by pointing first to the door and then to his own mouth, he made his wife understand that she was to fetch something to drink.
"And that dreadful engineer as well!" Signor Giacomo exclaimed, as if speaking to himself.
As the fisherman who, pulling hard on the long, heavy line quivering, he fancies, with the weight of the one big fish he has been angling for so long, finally redoubles his caution and skill, as, with a thrill, he sees two great shadowy fishes instead of one rising from the depths, so Pasotti, upon hearing this allusion to the engineer, was thrilled and amazed, and began preparing, with the most exquisitely delicate touch, to draw out this secret concerning Signor Giacomo and Ribera.
"Certainly," said he, "you did wrong."
Silence on Signor Giacomo's part.
Pasotti insisted.
"You did very wrong."
But just then Signora Barborin entered, smiling genially, and bearing a tray with the bottle and glasses. The wine was of a dark red, shot through with ruby lights, and Signor Giacomo contemplated it if not yet tenderly, at least benevolently. This wine had an aroma of austere virtue, and Signor Giacomo smelt of it affectionately, gazed at it with emotion, and then smelt of it again. This wine had that mellow richness which fills both palate and soul with its flavour, and indeed it possessed exactly that honest and pure tartness that its aroma pre-announced, and Signor Giacomo sipped it and wished it were not liquid and evanescent, tasted it, smacked his lips over it, and rolled it under his tongue. When, from time to time, he rested his glass on the little table, neither his hand nor his languid gaze were withdrawn from it.
"Poor Engineer! Poor Ribera!" Pasotti exclaimed. "He is a most upright man, but ..."