“Si, Signore. Now it’s July.”
In saying the last words Gaspare’s voice sounded fatalistic, and Artois believed that he caught an echo of a deep-down thought of his own. With all his virtues Gaspare had an admixture of the spirit of the East that dwells also in Sicily, a spirit that sometimes, brooding over a nature however fine, prevents action, a spirit that says to a man, “This is ordained. This is destiny. This is to be.”
“Gaspare,” Artois said, strong in this conviction, “I have heard you say, ‘e il destino.’ But you know we can often get away from things if we are quick-witted.”
“Some things, Signore.”
“Most things, perhaps. Don’t you trust me?”
“Signore!”
“Don’t you think, after all these years, you can trust me?”
“Signore, I respect you as I respect my father.”
“Well, Gaspare, remember this. The Signora has had trouble enough in her life. We must keep out any more.”
“Signore, I shall always do what I can to spare my Padrona. Thank you for the cigar, Signore. I ought to go now. I have to go to Mergellina for the boat.”