“It will not hurt the Signora or the Signorina. The fattura della morte—it is to harm Peppina. Has she not done us injury? Has she not taken my Patrigno from my mamma? Has she not made him mad? Is it not for her that he has been in prison, and that he has left my mamma without a soldo in the house? The Signora—she has been good to me and my mamma. It is she who sent my mamma money—twenty lire! I respect the Signora as I respect my mamma. Only to-day, only this very day she came to Mergellina, she came to see my mama. And when she knew that my Patrigno was let out of prison, when I cried out at the door that he was coming, the Signora was so glad for us that she looked—she looked—Madre di Dio! She was all white, she was shaking—she was worse than my poor mamma. And when I came to her, and when I called out, ‘Signora! Signora!’ you should have seen! She opened her eyes! She gave me such a look! And then my Patrigno came in at the door, and the Signora—she went away. I was going to follow her, but she put out her hand—so, to make me stay—she wanted me to stay with my mamma. And she went down the stairs all trembling because my Patrigno was let out of prison. Per dio! She has a good heart. She is an angel. For the Signora I would die. For the Signora I would do anything! I—you say I would kill the Signora! Would I kill my mamma? Would I kill the Madonna? La Bruna—would I kill her? To me the Signora is as my mamma! I respect the Signora as I respect my mamma. Ecco!”
“The fattura della morte will bring evil on the house, it will bring death into the house.”
Gaspare spoke again, and his voice was dogged with superstition, but it was less vehement than before.
“Already—who knows what it has brought? Who knows what evil it has done? All the house is sad to-night, all the house is terrible to-night.”
“It is Peppina who has looked on the house with the evil eye,” said Ruffo. “It is Peppina who has brought trouble to the house.”
There was silence. Then Gaspare said:
“No, it is not Peppina.”
As he spoke Artois saw him stretch out his hand, but gently, towards Ruffo.
“Who is it, then?” said Ruffo.
Moved by an irresistible impulse to interpose, Artois called out: