“The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is a farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino remembers?”
“Yes,” answered Peter. “Yes, you dear old thing. I remember.”
Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.
“Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The—the Signorino ate him.”
Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a kind of half-choked “Oh?”
“Yes,” whispered Marietta. “He was bought with the Signorino's money. I did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So I deceived the Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty.”
This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal—well, his smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big pinch of snuff.
“I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very sorry,” Marietta said.
Peter knelt down at her bedside.
“Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing Francesco—we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever. And as for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own good. I remember that chicken-pasty. It was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted. You must not worry any more about the little pig.”