The maid went for the soup, and Margherita asked all about Efès Cau's seizure.
"He had his dinner here—in this very courtyard," she said very seriously, "he seemed perfectly well."
"It's because he drinks;" said Anania also very serious, "he twisted about like a cat!"
Then Anania's face grew red; he had suddenly remembered the torn cat which Uncle Pera had caught in the snare, and that reminded him of the hundred lire stolen and hidden in the oak tree in the garden. Stolen! The hundred lire stolen! Whatever would Margherita Carboni say, if she knew that he, Anania, the son of the olive-miller, the foundling, the dependent with whom the little lady was deigning to be so pleasant and affable—had stolen a hundred lire and that these hundred lire were at this moment hidden in her own garden! A thief! He was a thief; and he had thieved an enormous sum. Now he perceived the full shame of his evil deed. Now he felt humiliation, grief, remorse.
"Like a cat?" echoed Margherita setting her teeth and twisting her little nose; "dear me! dear me! It would be better he died."
The maid came back, bringing the soup. Anania could not say another word. He took the bowl and moved away carrying it carefully. He was near crying and when he came up with Bustianeddu at the turn of the street, he repeated the words "It would be better he died."
"Who? Is the broth hot? I'm going to taste," said Bustianeddu, putting his face to the bowl. Anania was furious.
"Get away! You're wicked. You'll get like Efès Cau! What did you steal that money for? It's a mortal sin, to steal. Go and get the money and put it back in the drawer."
"Pouf! Are you gone mad?"
"Well then I'll tell my mother."