“Twenty years.”
“And what was your mother’s name?”
“Concetta.”
“Dio mio! And your name?”
“Rosina.”
“Mia figlia!”
“Mio padre!”
Here they fell into each other’s arms and the orchestra let loose a passage of wild allegria which it had been holding in reserve. The revelation of the cause of the ragged misery followed and was nearing its conclusion when the cavaliere happened to pass by. Rosina pointed him out to her father, who first made a speech at him and then shot him dead. Rosina wept over his body, although she hated him, and the curtain fell.
“That was very beautiful,” said the buffo. “Do you still think it will be a comedy? I still believe it will be a tragedy.”
“I am not sure,” I replied, “but we shall soon know. Did not the old man listen well?”