She ventured on the brusque, affectionate familiarity that is peculiar to Neapolitan servants when there is trouble in a house.
“Bring me another cup of coffee.”
“At least dip a rusk in it; you mustn’t starve.”
Caterina seated herself in the armchair, waiting for Giulietta to bring her the cup of coffee. She sat without thinking, counting the roses on the carpet, and observing that one turned to the left and the other to the right. She drank her coffee and then went over to her little writing-table, where she kept her own letters. They were already classified, with the order which was characteristic of her. There were letters from her aunt, from Giuditta, from her teachers, and from Andrea. The bulkiest packet was the one labelled “Lucia.” This packet smelled of musk; she untied and with calm attentiveness read those transparent, crossed, and closely written pages, one by one. They took her so long to read that her face began to show signs of fatigue. She locked the writing-table and added the key to the others in her pocket. Lucia’s letters had remained in her lap; she lifted up her dress like an apron, knelt down before the fireplace, and there burned the letters, page by page. The thin paper made a quick, short-lived flame, that left behind it a white evanescent ash, and a more pungent odour of musk, blended with that of burnt sealing-wax. She watched the pyre, still kneeling. When it was consumed, she rose to her feet, mechanically flicking the dust off her dress at the knees. The iron safe stood next to the mantelpiece. Andrea had left it and his bureau unlocked, with the keys in them. She opened it and inspected its contents. Andrea had taken with him a hundred thousand francs in coupons payable to bearer, and in shares of the National Bank. He had left the settlements of his inheritance, Caterina’s marriage contract, and a bundle of other bonds. In one corner were the cases containing Caterina’s jewels. She counted the money, classified the gems, and wrote a list of both on a scrap of paper, which she left in the bureau, took some small change and a ten-franc-note, and locked the safe. A new impulse caused her to spring to her feet again. She passed into an adjoining room, and from thence into the drawing-room, whose windows she threw wide open. The splendid December day broke in with its deep blue sky, its glare of light and its soft air. Caterina had nothing to do in the drawing-room, but in passing she stopped near a window to gracefully arrange the folds of a curtain, moved the Murano glasses from one table to another, and went a few steps away from them to judge of the effect. When she had inspected everything, in the bright light that lit up pearl-grey brocaded hangings into which were woven coral-coloured flowers, the crystals, the statues, the bric-à-brac, she closed the windows, fastened the shutters, and left the drawing-room and the yellow room behind her in darkness.
When she reached the dining-room, Giulietta hastened to meet her, thinking that her mistress would eat something. But Caterina was only looking at the high sideboards, making mental calculations.
“How many glasses are missing from the Baccarat service, Giulietta?”
“One large tumbler and a wineglass.”
“That’s right; and this set of Bohemian glass?”
“Only one; Monzu knocked it down with his elbow.”
“I see. I think there is a fork with a crooked prong.”