“Come!” cried Biagio, with a start, “no melancholy! I have here some marsala; let us drink it! I must have some biscuits too—then you shall help me pack my valises. To-morrow, after giving that dog a good lesson, I shall be off!”
“For always?”
“For always!” He took the bottle of marsala, the biscuits, and invited Nannetta to sit down and drink. There was another ring at the door. It was Signor Martino Martinelli, reduced to the very shadow of himself, as though a breath could blow him away like a feather. “Come in, come in, my very dear Signor Martino!” cried Biagio, slapping him on the back. “Who sent you, eh? I bet you I can guess. My wife!” Nannetta burst out laughing at seeing the man with his huge nose standing there, petrified at sight of her.
“Do not laugh, Nannetta,” said Biagio. “Allow me to present to you the prototype of faithful husbands, Signor Martino Martinelli, famed for the biggest nose in the world. Signor Martinelli, tell my esteemed wife that you found me safe and sound, with a good bottle of wine in front of me, and a charming little lady at my side. Do not sneeze! Will you have something to drink?”
“Par—pardon me,” stammered Signor Martinelli thickly and indignantly; “permit me to tell—to tell you that you—yes, sir—that—you—misjudge, yes, I say, unworthily—yes, sir—a heart—a heart of gold, which at this moment beats—yes, I say—beats for you. Good evening.”
The laughter of Biagio and Nannetta followed him to the door. Signor Martinelli felt relieved after this outburst, and, elevated to a sphere of heroism, went away with his nose high in the air, like a war trumpet.
VIII
Giannantonio Cocco Bertolli arrived first at the place appointed for the meeting, accompanied by the physician and two artillery officers, friends of Cariolin, who had volunteered to act as seconds. He was most calm. Like a true poet, he praised the mild April morning. “The zephyr returns, bearing with it fair weather—” He praised the trilling of the birds, saluting the sun; inhaled voluptuously the resinous odor which the pine trees gave out, and the cypresses of the handsome villa nearby; recited an ode of Anacreon which he had translated, and finally told the two officers that they were enjoying the apologue of the geese and the migrating crane. He was the crane; that is to say, according to the geese, a madman. “For I have neither overeaten nor drunk too much, you must know. Since yesterday, gentlemen, food has not entered my disheartened stomach. Water; I have drunk water at the public fountain. Diogenes, gentlemen, had a cup, but when he saw a boy drinking out of his own hand, he broke his own cup and he too drank out of his own hand. I do the same. I do not know whether I shall eat to-day, or where I shall sleep. Perhaps I will present myself to some farmer in the country. I will dig. Then I shall eat; but free from all ties in this absolute, sublime liberty which intoxicates me, and which must naturally seem like madness to the slaves of the law, of necessity, of social conventions. In a short time I shall break the head of the imbecile who has tried to cross my path, and then I shall work on my great poem, 'Erostratus.’”
A little later Biagio Speranza, Dario Scossi, and Momo Cariolin arrived with another physician. Biagio Speranza was very nervous; the thought of fighting with this madman, who had struck him, seemed to degrade him. But he tried to appear hilarious, so as not to lend too much importance to this duel, the grotesque epilogue of a silly prank. His valises and everything for his departure were ready, prepared at home. Now he would either give or receive a scratch, and all would be over. And by Jove, it was time!
The direction of the duel fell by lot to the young officer who acted as first second. But already it appeared that everything was being arranged most amicably. The ground being chosen and measured, the adversaries were then invited to take their places opposite each other. “If you please,” said the officer to Cocco Bertolli, “you must remove your coat.” Cocco took it off furiously and flung it far from him. At sight of his ragged and soiled shirt, torn at the elbows, all received a most painful impression; repulsion, disgust, and pity, all in one; they looked in each other’s eyes, questioning if this were not a case that should be brought to an end at once. But Cocco Bertolli, who already had his sword in hand, and quivered with impatience, demanded with proud indignation: “Well?”