“Crispin?” said he, wrinkling his brows; “isn’t he at home?”
“Basilio is, but Crispin stayed here.”
“Oh, yes, he stayed, but he ran off afterward with all sorts of things he’d stolen. The curate sent me to report it at the quarters. The guards must be on their way to your house by this time.”
Sisa could not believe it; she opened her mouth, but her lips moved in vain.
“Go find your children,” said the cook. “Everybody sees you’re a faithful woman; the children are like their father!”
Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.
“Don’t cry here,” said the cook still more roughly, “the curate is ill; don’t bother him! Go cry in the street!”
The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps with the sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate’s illness. Once on the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a sudden resolution, moved rapidly away.