“And what is the matter with you now?” the poor woman asked him in amazement.
“What?” cried Cocco Bertolli in a trembling voice, folding the paper on which he had scrawled the poetry, and opening his eyes very wide, as usual, and stamping his feet. “You ask me? Nothing! But I know! This is to be my lot! Thus my accursed fate has decreed! I am to be understood by no one! Not even by you!”
“I? Why?”
“She does not even say that she seems to understand!”
“Understand what? The poetry? But good gracious! I understand nothing. You know that. Be good, come now! Why do you act thus?”
“Because—because—” In vain! He could not pour out his heart in a declaration.
For this was needed the impelling force of an odious suspicion that came upon him suddenly, during one of these scenes, while poor Pentoni was urging him to be quiet, at least to speak softly, since nearby was the musician correcting his music.
“Ah, so it is for him?” Cocco Bertolli had thundered forth. “You love him? He is your lover? Confess! Viper, viper, viper—and why, then, have you flattered me until now?”
“I? Leave me!” Pentoni had cried, trembling with fear. “You are mad!”
“Cry; yes, cry out so that he will hear! I wish to see your knight; he too is a viper!”