'But how did it happen? how did it happen?' Don Crescenzio asked again desperately.
'Humph! there has been such a lot of things. He has had some unpleasantnesses, you see. A man is always a man.... He needed money ... he tried to get it in all sorts of ways.'
'What did he do?' asked the other, alarmed.
'Evil-minded people say he forged stamped paper—washing, you know, what was written on it already, and putting it to use again. But it can't be true. He leaves me to beggary; he has been ungrateful to me; but it can't be true. I will never believe it. It seems that the ill-natured people got at the President of the Consiglio dell' Ordine, who called him rather ugly things. It seems, in short, there were unpleasantnesses.'
'Poor man! poor man!' Don Crescenzio called out in a low voice.
'This summons to the President was a fatal thing for him. You may think for an honest man to feel himself insulted is unbearable. Signor Marzano wished to go away to some village where there is better breeding.'
'To go away at his age with seven francs in his pocket!'
'I would have gone with him,' the silly cobbler muttered modestly. 'I was getting ready to go with him, out of love to him; and as to the money—that is the real reason of the stroke.'
'How could it be?'
'You know, sir, that my mathematical labours, with God's help, have always brought in some money to the advocate.'