Angiola had beheld me two or three times in a downright passion; once, as I have stated, on account of her having brought me bad coffee, and a second time as follows:—
Every two or three weeks the jailer had brought me a letter from some of my family. It was previously submitted to the Commission, and most roughly handled, as was too evident by the number of erasures in the blackest ink which appeared throughout. One day, however, instead of merely striking out a few passages, they drew the black line over the entire letter, with the exception of the words, “My Dearest Silvio,” at the beginning, and the parting salutation at the close, “All unite in kindest love to you.”
This act threw me into such an uncontrollable fit of passion, that, in presence of the gentle Angiola, I broke out into violent shouts of rage, and cursed I know not whom. The poor girl pitied me from her heart; but, at the same time, reminded me of the strange inconsistency of my principles. I saw she had reason on her side, and I ceased from uttering my maledictions.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
One of the under-jailers one day entered my prison with a mysterious look, and said, “Sometime, I believe, that Siora Zanze (Angiola) . . . was used to bring you your coffee . . . She stopped a good while to converse with you, and I was afraid the cunning one would worm out all your secrets, sir.”
“Not one,” I replied, in great anger; “or if I had any, I should not be such a fool as to tell them in that way. Go on.”
“Beg pardon, sir; far from me to call you by such a name . . . But I never trusted to that Siora Zanze. And now, sir, as you have no longer any one to keep you company . . . I trust I—”
“What, what! explain yourself at once!”
“Swear first that you will not betray me.”
“Well, well; I could do that with a safe conscience. I never betrayed any one.”