The chemist chuckled audibly.
"And what were you talking about?" he asked. "The lady?"
"It is true," answered Ruggiero in a tone of reflection. "The Son of the
Fool was telling me that the lady is to marry my signore."
"And you want medicine!" cried the old man, laughing aloud. "Imbecile!
Have you never been in love?"
Ruggiero stared at him.
"Eh! A girl here and there—in Buenos Ayres, in New Orleans—what has that to do with it? You—what the malora—the plague—are you talking about? Eh? Explain a little."
"You had better go back to Buenos Ayres, or to some other place where you will not see the lady any more," said the chemist. "You are in love with her. That is all the matter."
"I, with a gran' signora, a great lady! You are crazy, Don Ciccio!"
"Crazy or not—tell me to-morrow whether your heart does not beat every time she looks at you. As for her being a great lady—we are men, and they are women."
The chemist had socialistic ideas of his own.