In (aside): Being a Spanish lady of high degree I cannot possibly refuse. I can only trust that as he is of noble birth and valorous, he won’t be such a blackguard as not to drink. (Drinks.)
Giov: Brava! But—do you know?—after all, I think I should prefer a fresh bottle, if it’s quite the same to you, my beautiful one. (He empties his glass upon the floor; the wine flows about the stage in a stream of fire. Donna Inez dies in agony. Exit Don Giovanni laughing. Curtain.)
During the applause that followed, Brancaccia rose, exclaiming:
“Such a thing could not possibly happen.”
She collected her wraps and we left the theatre, although the play was in nine acts and we had only seen three. As soon as we got home, she retired. I said to Peppino:
“I wish we had not gone to that play. I am sure Brancaccia has been frightened by it.”
“No,” said he, “not frightened.”
“But she’s gone away to recover herself?”
“Look here, Brancaccia don’t be thinking of the drama. She don’t be thinking of nothing—only the baby. She go to see if Ricuzzu is sleeping.”