“Lucia appeared to be so fond of me. She was so good, she thought of nothing but me. You saw, you must have seen, how fond she was of me. How could she do this to me?”
Husbanding his breath, he continued his complaint in an undertone, never turning to Caterina, but addressing his lamentations to the bed, the room, the curtains.
“Even this morning she kissed me three times. I ought to have known that she was going away. I ought not to have let her go out.”
A short, harsh cough interrupted him.
“Give me ... give me a little snow.”
She handed the saucer to him; he put a little in his mouth and was silent until he recovered his breath.
“Has she written to you?”
Caterina drew the letter from her pocket and handed it to him. Alberto raised it eagerly to the level of his eyes.
“Not a word as to where they are going, nor at what time they left. But I have found out the hour. They left at half-past two, by the Paris-Turin express. They posted the letters at the station. What has Andrea written to you? What does he say? Why has he done this to me? What does he write?”
“Nothing,” said Caterina, whose head had fallen on her bosom.