“Make good your rights,” said Trunfo. “A woman never lacks for means.” But she really recognized no rights of hers, and saw no means. He had made the terms of the agreement plain to her in advance. It was true, they were injurious, even shameful for her, but had she not accepted them? And if there arose in her heart a sentiment she had never before felt, and which she was not capable of explaining to herself, but which tormented her, and which she blushed for without respite, what fault was it of his? He had given her but a single cause for offense; he did not wish to believe in her honesty. What vengeance could she take for that? Possibly, if she felt herself capable of it, she might actually deceive him—But no, never! She inclined rather toward the advice of Martinelli, who counseled her to win him by fair means, to soften him.
“Write to him,” finally advised Martinelli. “Ask him to come as before, to do at least—yes, I say—his duty, now that that other—yes, I say—that example of the wrath of God is about to leave the hospital.”
“Have you news of him?” asked Carolinona.
Yes, Signor Martinelli had news, but he gave it to her with compunction, anxiously. Unfortunately, that “wrath of God” would be discharged in two or three days—the beast! One of the nurses had told him that while he was already convalescent he heard of this marriage and had had a relapse. “A dangerous fellow, dangerous!” finished Signor Martino. “So much so that I would almost advise you to go to the police without further delay.” Poor Pentoni stood pondering for a moment, then smiled.
“Signor Martino, do you know what I have decided? I shall not do anything. I will not move even a finger. Let Bertolli come and beat me. Or perhaps he will wish to kill me? It would really be laughable. Let us leave it to God!”
Now that is all very well; God is great, omnipotent, watches over all, protects the good and the oppressed. Nevertheless, Martinelli thought it well to inform Scossi and Cedebonis of the violent designs with which Cocco Bertolli would leave the hospital. It was therefore decided, after a long confabulation, to send Scossi to the home of Biagio Speranza, whom no one had seen since that day he had disappeared; and if he was not at home, a note was to be left, warning him of the Pentoni’s danger; if he was away, Scossi was to learn his address and telegraph him.
He was neither at home nor out of town. Dario Scossi was obliged to hire a cab and repair to a farm belonging to Speranza’s old landlady, some three kilometers outside of the city gates. Yes, Biagio had been there for four days and was to remain until his departure for Barcelona; he had warned his landlady not to tell any one where he had taken refuge, and the landlady, as we have seen, had kept her promise. But it really was a question of something serious?
“Most serious! Most serious!” Scossi reassured her.
Having thus forced the citadel, Scossi began to feel the real necessity for believing in the danger that threatened Carolinona, and in the dreadfulness of Cocco Bertolli, so that he might have courage enough to face Biagio Speranza. The cab finally stopped before a rustic gate, consisting of a single bar, supported on posts not less rustic, behind which rose two tall cypress trees. A narrow path led up from the gate, between the vines, to the little knoll, on the summit of which stood the small house, amid trees. What poetry! What a dream! What quietude!
Before ringing the bell, Scossi glanced up the path for a few minutes; suddenly he heard the shrill squawks of geese, then the voice of Biagio Speranza, calling gaily: “Nannetta! Nannetta!”