“One moment, my daughter! The room had silver in it...!”
Candia, divining the truth, turned upon him like a viper about to sting. At the same time her thin lips trembled.
“The room had silver in it,” he continued, “and now Donna Cristina finds herself lacking one spoon. Do you understand, my daughter? Was it taken by you ... through mistake?”
Candia jumped like a grasshopper at this undeserved accusation. In truth she had stolen nothing. “Ah, I? I?” she cried. “Who says I took it? Who has seen me in such an act? You fill me with amazement ... you fill me with wonder! Don Silla! I a thief? I? I?...”
And her indignation had no limit. She was even more wounded by this unjust accusation because she felt herself capable of the deed which they had attributed to her.
“Then you have not taken it?” Don Silla interrupted, withdrawing prudently into the depths of his large chair.
“You fill me with amazement!” Candia chided afresh, while she shook her long hands as if they were two whips.
“Very well, you may go. We will see in time.” Without saying good-bye, Candia made her exit, striking against the door-post as she did so. She had become green in the face and was beside herself with rage. On reaching the street and seeing the crowd assembled there, she understood at length that popular opinion was against her, that no one believed in her innocence. Nevertheless she began publicly to exculpate herself. The people laughed and drifted away from her. In a wrathful state of mind she returned home, sank into a condition of despair and fell to weeping in her doorway.
Don Donato Brandimarte, who lived next door, said to her by way of a joke:
“Cry aloud, Candia. Cry to the full extent of your strength, for the people are about to pass now.”