"Go to the devil whom you came from!" exclaimed Costantino. "I would as soon think of going to her house as you would of going to church. I say you are to wait!" and he made as if to tweak her nose, but she quickly drew back and shut the door.
Ten minutes later Costantino returned, but his strange guest had disappeared. Thinking that she might be hiding somewhere outside, he looked for her, calling in a low voice and telling her that he had bread and meat and fruit, but in vain; she had taken herself off.
An intense stillness reigned all about the hut. Through the night, now completely fallen, came only the sound of the fig-leaves rustling mysteriously, as though an invisible hand were shaking a piece of stiff silk. Nothing else could be heard, and nothing could be seen, except the stars shining brilliantly in the warm sky.
Costantino felt much aggrieved by Mattea's defection. As lonely as an outcast dog, what on earth was there for him to do throughout that interminable evening? He was not sleepy, having, in fact, taken a long nap in the afternoon, and he had nowhere to go. He began to eat and drink, talking aloud from time to time in a querulous voice.
"If she imagines that I am coming to see her, she's green,"—silence—"as green as a rose in springtime. She's crazy." Another silence. Then—"Coming to see her! Not I; neither her nor the other one. Mattea is sickening; she seems to be a sort of animal, and that's all there is about it."
He swore, and then gave a light, purposeless laugh, such as people give when they are alone. All the while he kept swallowing great gulps of wine, and each time that he emptied his glass he would thrust out his lips and exclaim: "Ah—ah—ah!" rubbing his chest up and down to express the delicious sensation caused by the wine as it flowed down his throat. Soon he began to feel more cheerful.
"She may go to the devil—or to hell, if she wants to!" he exclaimed, thinking of Mattea and her sudden disappearance. But all the while he knew perfectly well that he was forcing himself to dwell despitefully upon her, in order to keep from thinking of the other. At last he went out, and, stretching himself upon the stone bench, allowed his thoughts to take their own course.
"She is alone," he reflected. "Well, what do I care? I loathe her and I wouldn't go there, not if she were to give me a chest full of gold! What should I do with gold, anyway?" He put the question to himself in profound dejection, but immediately began to hum a gay little song, having got into a way of trying to fool himself as well as other people:
"'Little heart, dear heart,
I await thee day by day,
But, when thou seest me,
Hovereth near the bird of prey.'"
For a time the sound of his own voice—low, monotonous,—arrested his attention; then his thoughts once more asserted themselves.