'You, my lord, a gentleman!' said Parascandolo, making out he would not speak to Trifari.
'What would you have? Passion carried me away,' said the old man, quite humiliated, shivering from other remembrances also.
Just then came in at the door, which had been left open, Colaneri, the viperish professor, and Don Crescenzio the lottery-banker. On seeing a stranger, recognising Don Gennaro, they understood all, and looked at each other dismayed, especially Don Crescenzio, who was a Government official, as he said.
The money-lender went on smoking coolly, whilst the medium, getting weaker, let his head fall back on the chair. The house, which had been a prison for a month now, had an ugly, sordid look, and the artificial light of the lamp in full day wrung the heart like the wax tapers round a bier. Really, Don Pasqualino looked like a corpse.
'Have so many of you set on one man?' the money-lender asked, without directly addressing anyone.
'Why did he not give the lottery numbers at once?' yelled Colaneri, pulling at his collar with a priestly gesture. 'No one would have done anything to him then.'
'You could be sent to the galleys for this, you know,' said the usurer rather icily.
'Don't you speak of the galleys; you ought to have been there long ago!' hissed the ex-priest.
The other shrugged his shoulders, then said: