I silently bowed my thanks.
“I am of a strange temperament, I suppose,” he resumed. “To-night this ravishing scene of beauty and splendor makes me sad at heart, I know not why. It seems too brilliant, too dazzling. I would as soon go home and compose a dirge as anything.”
I laughed satirically.
“Why not do it?” I said. “You are not the first person who, being present at a marriage, has, with perverse incongruity, meditated on a funeral!”
A wistful look came into his brilliant poetic eyes.
“I have thought once or twice,” he remarked in a low tone, “of that misguided young man Ferrari. A pity, was it not, that the quarrel occurred between you?”
“A pity indeed!” I replied, brusquely. Then taking him by the arm I turned him round so that he faced my wife, who was standing not far off. “But look at the—the—angel I have married! Is she not a fair cause for a dispute even unto death? Fy on thee, Luziano!—why think of Ferrari? He is not the first man who has been killed for the sake of a woman, nor will he be the last!”
Salustri shrugged his shoulders, and was silent for a minute or two. Then he added with his own bright smile:
“Still, amico, it would have been much better if it had ended in coffee and cognac. Myself, I would rather shoot a man with an epigram than a leaden bullet! By the way, do you remember our talking of Cain and Abel that night?”
“Perfectly.”