Wednesday, 26th.
It was this very morning that Garrone let us know what he is like. When
I entered the school a little late, because the mistress of the upper
first had stopped me to inquire at what hour she could find me at home,
the master had not yet arrived, and three or four boys were tormenting
poor Crossi, the one with the red hair, who has a dead arm, and whose
mother sells vegetables. They were poking him with rulers, hitting him
in the face with chestnut shells, and were making him out to be a
cripple and a monster, by mimicking him, with his arm hanging from his
neck. And he, alone on the end of the bench, and quite pale, began to be
affected by it, gazing now at one and now at another with beseeching
eyes, that they might leave him in peace. But the others mocked him
worse than ever, and he began to tremble and to turn crimson with rage.
All at once, Franti, the boy with the repulsive face, sprang upon a
bench, and pretending that he was carrying a basket on each arm, he aped
the mother of Crossi, when she used to come to wait for her son at the
door; for she is ill now. Many began to laugh loudly. Then Crossi lost
his head, and seizing an inkstand, he hurled it at the other's head with
all his strength; but Franti dodged, and the inkstand struck the master,
who entered at the moment, full in the breast.
All flew to their places, and became silent with terror.
The master, quite pale, went to his table, and said in a constrained
voice:--
"Who did it?"
No one replied.
The master cried out once more, raising his voice still louder, "Who is
it?"
Then Garrone, moved to pity for poor Crossi, rose abruptly and said,
resolutely, "It was I."
The master looked at him, looked at the stupefied scholars; then said in
a tranquil voice, "It was not you."