“Because I can not,” promptly replied Carolinona. “Pardon me, but you must understand that it can not please me that you, to make an end to an annoying joke, are forced to make me play a part that does not suit me—”
“What!” exclaimed Biagio. “The rôle of wife! By heavens, you ought to thank me.”
Carolinona took fire. “Pardon me, and am I to thank you also for the words you said to Trunfo on my account? Your wife for a joke I understand; but since you have committed the folly of giving me your name in the eyes of the law, it seems to me, I do not know, but it seems to me that you ought at least to show that you do not believe certain calumnies, and not make a jest of them. Because they are calumnies I would have you to know! The vilest calumnies! I have always attended to my own business. I am poor, yes, but honest, honest! It is well that you should know it. And you may set your mind at rest on this point—”
Biagio looked at her and let his arms fall. “You alarm me, Carolinona! I did not believe you capable of telling the truth with such insistence and such warmth. I believe you, I believe you—but let me look out of this window and see if those tiresome fellows are gone, and we will make an end to this at once.”
He went to the window and looked out into the street. “No one,” said he, turning away. “I am sorry that the joke has finished really badly. Enough; the thing is done, and we must think no more about it. Good-by, eh?”
He held out his hand; the Pentoni hesitatingly laid her own, fat and black, in it, murmuring: “Good-by.” Then, all vibrating with emotion, she shut herself up in her room, and burst into tears.
Biagio Speranza, having taken a few steps, saw, spying in the shadows of the little square opposite the door, instead of Scossi and Cedebonis, Signor Martinelli, who was rubbing his hands with the cold. The good man was quite robbed of breath at hearing his name called. Then a hand smote him sharply on the shoulder.
“What are you doing here, my fine fellow? Tell me, were you perhaps waiting until I should have gone away to—”
“May Heaven forbid! What are you saying, Signor Speranza?” stammered poor Martinelli, so tremblingly that Biagio could not keep from laughing. “I—I was just going—”
“And meanwhile you are here!” replied Biagio, recovering himself, and pretending to be severe. He took him by the arm, and added as they moved away: “Come, let us go, and explain to me—”