“Oh, mother dear,” he protested, with a veil of sadness in the accent.
“Suppose I were to preach you a sermon this morning?” she added, still tenderly.
“I don’t deserve it, mamma; I don’t deserve it.”
“Marco, you are again leading a too disordered and jolly life.”
“You are wrong. Few men in the world bore themselves more than I do.”
“Where do you go, when you don’t dine with us, Marco?”
“To some place where I can bore myself less than in Casa Fiore, madre bella. Not on your account, see. You know I adore you.”
“Is it to fly from poor Vittoria?”
“Even you, mamma, say poor Vittoria! Even you are moved with compassion for her! And why aren’t you moved with compassion for your son, for him whom you have placed in the world? Why don’t you say, poor Marco? Don’t you see that I am unhappy?” And his exclamations were half melancholy and ironical, while his face grew disturbed and sad.
“Alas, my son, what a cross for me to see all this, and to be able to do nothing! It seems that all are wrong and all are right. What am I to do, my God, what am I to do?”