The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

I bowed.

'Sir, I am your servant.'

'Scipione, Alessandro, follow me!'

And accompanied by his sons, he left the room, and I remained alone.

The servants peeped in at the door, looking at me as if I were some strange beast, and fled when I turned round. I walked up and down, up and down; I looked out of window. In the street the people were going to and fro, singing, and talking as if nothing had happened. They did not know that death was flying through the air; they did not know that the happiness of living men had gone for ever.

At last I heard the steps again, and Bartolomeo Moratini entered the room, followed by his sons; and all three were very grave.

'Sir,' he said, 'the stain on your honour and mine has been effaced.'

I bowed more deeply than before.

'Sir, I am your very humble servant.'

'I thank you that you allowed me to do my duty as a father; and I regret that a member of my family should have shown herself unworthy of my name and yours. I will detain you no longer.'