“After he offered me that affront,” she replied, “he came home and beat me, as he often did; then he went out and was gone all day. At night he returned with a pistol and threatened to shoot me; but I got the pistol away from him, for he was drunk. I threw him—the briccone!—on his bed, and he fell asleep. Then I stuffed up the doors and windows, and lighted the charcoal brazier. My head ached horribly, and I knew nothing more till the next day, when I woke up in the hands of my neighbors. They had smelt the charcoal, and burst in the door,—but he was dead.”
“And the law?”
“I told the judge everything. Besides, he had tried to sell me to an Englishman,—that’s why he wanted to disgrace me here with you; he thought I would resist less. The judge told me I might go, I had done right; then I confessed to a priest, and he gave me absolution.”
“But, cara mia, what can you do in France? Better stay in Italy; besides, I am not rich.”
She smiled disdainfully.
“I shall not cost you much,” she said; “on the contrary, I can save you money.”
“How so?”
“I can be the model for your statues if I choose. Besides which, I am a capital housekeeper. If Benedetto had behaved properly, we should have had a good home,—per che, I know how to make one; and I’ve another great talent too!”
She ran to a guitar, which was hanging on the wall, and began to sing a bravura air, accompanying herself with singular energy.
“In France,” she said, when she had finished, “I could take lessons and go upon the stage, where I know I should succeed; that was Benedetto’s idea.”