“Thirty-five, I assure you; I was born in 1865 at Caserta.”
“Good gracious! So you are still young and tender? Oh, my dear! One would never have thought it. And—well, shall we say a maid?”
“Most assuredly, yes, sir!”
“I believe you. Let us then write to Caserta for the birth certificate. Come, Scossi, let us hasten to the City Hall for the announcement.”
III
There were two reasons for hastening this memorable marriage: first, Giannantonio Cocco Bertolli was leaving the hospital, cured; secondly, Biagio Speranza had as usual fallen in love in the mean time with a seductive woman. During these days, in order to escape temptation, he walked the streets with his eyes on the ground and his nose in the air.
But the Pentoni had wished for time at least to have a new gown made for the ceremony. White? Oh, no indeed. Modest, suitable to her age, but new. Could she go to the City Hall otherwise? “And what do you care about it?” Biagio had asked her.
“Nothing for my own sake, of course. But for you, Signor Speranza. What would people say?”
“Let them talk. What does it matter to me? Dress as you like. I do not want you to throw away money needlessly.”
And what pains the choice of the gown cost her! Although so long subdued and resigned to her lot, she felt her heart oppressed that day by a strange anguish, which brought to her lips an unusual desire to laugh, to her eyes a longing to weep.