“You are mistaken,” rejoined Carolina, with a note of authority. “It would have made no difference to Marianna. She was not to wed Armando in any case.”
“I know better. Anyway, I shall not sit here biting my lips until the Feast of Sunday, and perhaps be cheated of my right. Who knows when she may fly?”
“No fear of that.”
“No? Why not? I tell you she knows what to expect from me, and is no simpleton.” Then he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, first opening the door and making sure that there was no listener in the hall. “Twice I would have killed her, but once I deceived myself, and the other time she gammoned me with a lie that made me try to kill my uncle. Don’t you see that I can not wait here while she may be getting away?”
“I promise you she will not leave Mulberry. Do you wish to know why? Well, it is because she thinks you have fled from America and that she is free to become your uncle’s wife. Ah! don’t you see the fine vendetta I am hatching for you? On the Feast of Sunday you appear and stop the wedding. The Neapolitan beast is kicked out of Casa Di Bello. You follow her and—claim your rights. Is it not a sweet vendetta?”
“Yes,” said Bertino after a pause. “I will wait.”
CHAPTER XXIII
A PARTNERSHIP IN TEN-INCH ST. PETERS
Though Carolina had not been blind to the meaning of the signals flashed by Armando and Marianna’s eyes whenever the lovers were together, Bertino’s words stirred her to the need of taking instant measures to smother any marplot that might brew from their attachment. To this end she resolved to keep them apart until the final act of her private theatricals should be played. Thus it fell out that on Friday, two days before the time for Signor Di Bello’s second essay at a wedding, when Armando called to deliver a most weighty message to Marianna, he was met at the door with Carolina’s avowal that the girl was indisposed. He might have credited the dreadful news but for a face that he saw at the window as he walked away, and a pair of hands and lips that were telegraphing with much energy. “Wait, and I shall be out,” was the only part of Marianna’s excited display that he understood. But it was enough to insure his waiting a week, had that been necessary. As it was, she did not come until darkness had called lights to the caffè windows and the banks and grocery shops had put up their shutters.
“It is finished now,” she said, hatless and breathing hard. “I can never go back to Casa Di Bello.”
“What matter?” he asked, taking her hand, and for the first time in many a day showing a joy and contempt for circumstance that befitted his years. “Come along. I have beautiful news. Let us go to the gardens of Paradise.”