“Very well, here it is.”
Verdura called a woman and had her heap up the fruit on a plate. Then he said:
“That signora who lived up there, Donna Violetta, do you remember...? That one of the theatre, do you remember...?”
“Well?”
“She has made off this morning. Crash!”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed, Don Domè.”
“Ah, now I understand!” exclaimed Don Domenico, who was a subtle man and cruelly malicious.
Then, as he wished to revenge himself for the offence given him by Don Giovanni and also to make up for the three cents expended for the news, he went immediately to the casino in order to divulge the secret and to enlarge upon it.
The “casino,” a kind of café, stood immersed in shadow, and up from its tables sprinkled with water, arose a singular odour of dust and musk. There snored Doctor Punzoni, relaxed upon a chair, with his arms dangling. The Baron Cappa, an old soul, full of affection for lame dogs and tender girls, nodded discreetly over a newspaper. Don Ferdinando Giordano moved little flags over a card representing the battlefields of the Franco-Prussian war. Don Settimio de Marinis appraised with Doctor Fiocca the works of Pietro Mettastasio, not without many vocal explosions and a certain flowery eloquency in the use of poetical expressions. The notary Gaiulli, not knowing with whom to play, shuffled the cards of his game alone, and laid them out in a row on the table. Don Paolo Seccia sauntered around the billiard table with steps calculated to assist the digestion.