“Accept this purse.”
Ferrante opened the purse, took out a single sequin, which he kissed and thrust into his bosom, and then gave the purse back to her.
“You give me back this purse—you, who are a robber!”
“No doubt about that. My rule is that I must never have more than a hundred francs. Now, at this moment, the mother of my children has eighty francs and I have twenty-five; I am out of my reckoning by five francs, and if I were to be hanged at this moment I should be stung by remorse. I have taken one sequin, because it comes from you, and I love you!”
The tone in which these simple words were spoken was perfect. “He really does love!” thought the duchess to herself.
That day he seemed quite off his balance. He said there were some people at Parma who owed him six hundred francs, and with that sum he would repair his hut, in which his poor children were now constantly catching cold.
“But I will advance the six hundred francs to you,” exclaimed the duchess, greatly moved.
“But, then, would not my political opponents slander me, and say that I, a public man, am selling myself?”
The duchess, deeply touched, offered to conceal him at Parma if he would swear to her that for the moment he would not exercise his functions in the town, and above all that he would not carry out any of the death sentences which he declared he had in petto.