“Si, signor!”
“What has become of the old man who used to live here?”
He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and drew his pipe-stem across his throat with a significant gesture.
“So, signor!—with a sharp knife! He had a good deal of blood, too, for so withered a body. To kill himself in that fashion was stupid: he spoiled an Indian shawl that was on his bed, worth more than a thousand francs. One would not have thought he had so much blood.”
And the fellow put back his pipe in his mouth and smoked complacently. I heard in sickened silence.
“He was mad, I suppose?” I said at last.
The long pipe was again withdrawn.
“Mad? Well, the people say so. I for one think he was very reasonable—all except that matter of the shawl—he should have taken that off his bed first. But he was wise enough to know that he was of no use to anybody—he did the best he could! Did you know him, signor?”
“I gave him money once,” I replied, evasively; then taking out a few francs I handed them to this evil-eyed, furtive-looking son of Israel, who received the gift with effusive gratitude.
“Thank you for your information,” I said coldly. “Good-day.”