"There's no one at home. They'll be back soon, if you'll wait," said the maid. "Why didn't you come earlier?"
"Because I do what I choose," said Anania entering.
"Oh, very well. It's better to waste your time with that scum Agata, than to come and visit your benefactors."
"Pshaw!" said Anania, leaning against the window.
The servant was insulting as she had been that long ago night when he and Bustianeddu had come for the basin of soup. Nothing was changed. He was still a dependent, an object of charity.
"But I'm grown up!" he thought. "I can renounce it all, go to work, be a soldier—anything that's not abject!"
He moved from the window, brushing against the writing desk, which was already illuminated by the moon. Among the papers, untidily tossed about, he spied a pink envelope lined with green.
The blood rushed to his face. His ears burned, he shook from head to foot. Mechanically he bent and took up the envelope. Yes, it was that one, torn and empty. He felt as if he were touching the remains of some sacred thing which had been violated and destroyed. It was all over! His soul was empty and torn to pieces like this envelope.
Suddenly, brightness flooded the room. Margherita had come in! He tried to drop the envelope, but perceived that the girl had seen it in his hand. Shame now was added to his grief.
"Good evening," said Margherita, placing a lamp on the desk; "they've left you in the dark."