“Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?”
“I have never said Ruffo was like anybody!” Gaspare exclaimed, with sudden and intense violence. “May the Madonna let me die—may I die”—he held up his arms—“may I die to-morrow if I have ever said Ruffo was like anybody!”
He got up from his chair. His face was red in patches, like the face of a man stricken with fever.
“Gaspare, I know that, but what could this woman have meant?”
“Madonna! How should I know? Signora, how can I tell what a woman like that means? Such women have no sense, they talk, they gossip—ah, ah, ah, ah!”—he imitated the voice of a woman of the people—“they are always on the door-step, their tongues are always going. Dio mio! Who is to say what they mean, or what nonsense goes through their heads?”
Hermione got up and laid her hand heavily on his arm.
“I believe you know of whom Ruffo’s mother spoke, Gaspare. Tell me this—did Ruffo’s mother ever know your Padrone?”
She looked straight into his eyes. It seemed to her as if, for the first time, there came from them to her a look that had something in it of dislike. This look struck her to a terrible melancholy, yet she met it firmly, almost fiercely, with a glance that fought it, that strove to beat it back. And with a steady voice she repeated the question he had not answered.
“Did Ruffo’s mother ever know your Padrone?”
Gaspare moved his lips, passing his tongue over them. His eyes fell. He moved his arm, trying to shift it from his Padrona’s hand. Her fingers closed on it more tenaciously.