“There are generally plenty of sarde round the islet,” continued the fisherman, “but if the Signori would not be too tired it would be best to stay out the night. We shall get many more fish towards morning, and we can run the boat into the Pool of San Francesco, and have some sleep there, if the Signori like. We others generally take a nap there, and go to work further on in the night. But of course it is as the Signori prefer.”
“They want to keep us out all night to get more pay,” said the Marchesino to Artois, in bad French.
He had divined the suspicion that had suddenly risen up in his friend, and was resolved to lay it to rest, without, however, abandoning his purpose, which had become much more ardent with the coming of the night. The voices of the laughing women were ringing in his ears. He felt adventurous. The youth in him was rioting, and he was longing to be gay, as the men with those women were being gay.
“What do you think, Emilio caro?” he asked.
Then before Artois could reply, he said:
“After all, what do a few soldi matter? Who could sleep in a room on such a night? It might be August, when one bathes at midnight, and sings canzoni till dawn. Let us do as he says. Let us rest in the—what is the pool?” he asked of the fishermen, pretending not to know the name.
“The pool of San Francesco, Signorino Marchesino.”
“Pool of San Francesco. I remember now. That is the place where all the fishermen along the coast towards Nisida go to sleep. I have slept there many times when I was a boy, and so has Viviano. To-night shall we do as the fishermen, Emilio?”
There was no pressure in his careless voice. His eyes for the moment looked so simple, though as eager as a child’s.
“Anything you like, mon ami,” said Artois.