"She laid many yesterday," he replied, taking out his money–bag. "They are all in here, francs and soldi, and there are many of them." He patted the bag affectionately, looked again at Pappina, and added: "I'll let her rest. It's quiet after the fete, and I can't lose much to–day."
"To–day! Guiseppe, she shall not leave the house till she is quite well. You know how high–strung and sensitive she is, like a golden lute that responds to the slightest touch of any breeze, no matter how mild and soft. You must let her rest. You must, Guiseppe." Marta had gone close to her husband and was looking earnestly and pleadingly into his face.
"I'll not break her down and lose her," Guiseppe replied. "She did well at the fete. After all, what will a few days matter?" He walked to the little cot and continued: "I know you, bambina, I know you. If you don't feel right you may as well stay at home, for you can't sing and you won't dance."
He turned with a shrug of his shoulders, picked up the Punchinello stage, and left the house.
Pappina dozed all through the long day, with Marta keeping close watch by her side.
Late that evening Guiseppe came in stealthily. He found his supper waiting him.
"All right again, Marta?" he questioned.
"A few days' rest is all she needs," Marta answered, thankful that he was not ill–natured, and pleased that he had inquired about the child.
For several days Guiseppe went out alone with the Punchinellos. He missed Pappina, and the money he earned was not worth the time and trouble it cost him to give the show.
"It's no use," he said to Marta one evening as he came in. "The foreigners have sought the cool resorts. The wealth of Naples is leaving also. It's along the coast they go to enjoy the fresh breezes of the Bay of Naples, and we may as well follow them and their money."