“But, sir—” Martinelli hastened to reply, greatly embarrassed, “I confess—since you, yes, I say—since you suspected me—(May Heaven defend me!) I confess that I remained here, not so much out of curiosity, as because—yes, I say—to congratulate myself that finally you had recognized the—the—the sacredness of the bond, because—”
“And am I really to believe you?” Biagio interrupted him, standing still. “You stood there in the shadow like a vile deceiver; you can not deny it.”
“But pray do not say that even in jest!” cried Signor Martinelli, his eyes turned heavenward, and forcing himself to smile. “Pardon me, but at my age? And then she—a thoroughly virtuous woman, I would swear it—And she has always been so—so good to me, has always confided—yes, I say—confided so many things to me, poor thing—And I stood there, believe me, congratulating myself—that—”
“You must excuse me! Good-by!” Biagio Speranza hastily interrupted him, withdrew his arm, and hurried after a flashily dressed woman who at that moment emerged from a café.
Martino Martinelli stood there, abandoned in the middle of the street; involuntarily he raised his hand to his hat, then his eyes followed for a time the couple who went away together laughing loudly, perhaps at him, perhaps at the Pentoni; and he shook his head sorrowfully, wounded.
VI
Neither the next evening nor the following ones did Biagio Speranza come to the pension.
Momo Cariolin and Dario Scossi ceased teasing Carolinona after the first evening, and, truth to say, she was somewhat distant with them. Trunfo tried to take his revenge by reminding them how he had warned them not to joke stupidly in a matter that had no joke in it. Cedebonis gave himself no peace, thinking that with this marriage had been celebrated the funeral of mirth, and for several evenings he repeated this phrase, which seemed to him particularly felicitous. He alone, with his Calabrian obstinacy, continued fuming; he fumed because the fire would not once more burst forth with the fine witticisms of former days. But no one paid any attention to him, and he consoled himself after a fashion, thinking that a renewal of this huge joke was inevitable, in one way or another, as soon as Cocco Bertolli should leave the hospital.
Trunfo, meanwhile, who had resumed his former habits, between one note and another of his hissed opera, instigated Carolinona to avenge herself.
At these vindictive exhortations of his a desire for vengeance flamed in the heart of the Pentoni; but soon after, suffocated, as though the flame had suddenly become smoke—a slow, dense smoke—she buried her face in her hands, and shook her head bitterly.