It was already evening. Carolinona, although tired after the tumultuous
day, must spend several hours in putting the house in order. Finally,
having dismissed the waiters and cook and sent her own servant to bed,
she retired to her room. And the bed? Certainly she was not going to
sleep in that new bed. She went and examined it closely, and first
passed her hand gently over the pink silk coverlet; but against the
soft, delicate, rose-colored material she suddenly noticed how dark
her fat hand looked, disfigured by hard work, with short, rough nails,
and instinctively she drew it back, murmuring anew: “What a pity!” She
stooped down to examine the embroidery of the sheet, but no longer
noticed the beauty of the bed; she was thinking of herself, thinking
that if she had been pretty this ridiculous marriage would not have
occurred; if she had been pretty she would have been married long
ago. And yet, how many of her former friends, certainly not prettier
than she, had married, and now had homes of their own, position, while
she--as a joke--married, and no wife! “Fate!”
She started, looked around; saw in a corner, rolled up, the mattress of
her bed, the iron framework leaning against the wall. She stood for a
moment perplexed whether or not to call the servant to help her. What
should she do? She moved toward the corner where stood the mattress,
but passing before the mirror of her wardrobe, she caught sight of
herself and paused. From the attentive examination of herself in the
mirror there arose in her a lively dislike for the task of making up
her bed. No, she would not do it! She would sleep in the armchair. So
much the worse for her that at her age, to amuse others, she had lent
herself to such folly, ridicule, mockery.
But immediately the instinctive need for excusing herself called up the
reasons that had led her to be persuaded; namely, her fear of being
bound to that other crazy man, who wished to become her husband by
force; the pitying promise which she had allowed her lips to utter that
day in the hospital because of having listened to that fool Martinelli.
“Bah!” she thought. “And when that crazy man comes out of the hospital
furious, he, my husband, will defend me, recognizing the reason for
which I consented to play the buffoon.”
She began to unfasten her gown. Suddenly she stopped; it was useless,
since she was to sleep sitting in the chair. Another lie this,
unearthed to prevent herself from acknowledging a foolish hope which
she knew could not be realized even in a dream. She extinguished the
lamp, she seated herself in the armchair. Through the silence that
reigned in the street below she listened intently, unconsciously.
Where was he at this hour? Perhaps in some café with his friends. And
she imagined the room of a café, illuminated, and saw them all, her
boarders, seated there at little tables, and he was laughing, laughing,
and answering witticisms. Certainly her name was in every one’s mouth,
and derided. What did it matter to her? She waited for the noisy
reunion to come to an end that she might see him alone. Where would he
go? Home? Or would he perhaps--perhaps go elsewhere? At this thought
she paused, as before an unexpected abyss, taken aback. Why, yes, yes!
Was he not absolutely free?
And she was seated there in the armchair. Oh, fool, oh, madwoman! And
she found sleep impossible.
V
No, Biagio Speranza had not gone to the café, as Carolinona had
imagined.
Annoyed by the jokes of his friends, he had gone home, with the firm
determination of setting out for Barcelona the next day, and making an
end of it.
He had begun preparing what he needed for the journey, when he thought
that he had not enough money for this hastened departure. And then,
confronted with this material obstacle, he agreed that, on the whole,
flight was not worthy of him. Yes, yes; he had really done wrong to be
annoyed, to sneak away thus. And he must not abandon to the wrath of
Cocco Bertolli that poor woman who had nothing to do with these pranks,
who would keep to her agreement, and would never annoy or molest him;
of that he was sure.
“Poor Carolinona!” he thought with a smile. “With what a look she
pronounced that ‘yes’ with a glance at the official, as much as to say:
‘You see what value that can have! For my part, I do not think that one
should jest thus, but these young fellows thought that there was no
harm in it, and here I am to satisfy them. What else could I do? I must
write too? Sign my name?’”
He went to bed, and was not long in falling asleep. He had bad dreams!
Carolinona would not listen to reason; was she or was she not his
wife? And she wished to enjoy all her rights--ready, oh, most ready,
to take upon herself all her duties. She seized him by the arm and did
not intend to let him go. But how about their agreement? It was all a
joke! Joke? She had really signed the contract. And therefore he must
stay here with her. Infamy, treachery! All the doors closed? Kicks,
pinches, blows at each door. In vain! Oh, what grief, what rage, what
agony! Behind those closed, bolted doors the friends laughed as though
they would split their sides: Cariolin, Scossi, Cedebonis, and even
Martinelli. Trunfo sneered. An infamous conspiracy! Did they then wish
his death? No, no, even if it cost him his life, no; he would not be
made to sleep in that bed. Ah, they would take him by force? They were
binding him? Cowards! So many against one! Softly, softly! There at the
throat, no--Ah, they were suffocating him--
He rose late, and in the worst of humors. He would go to the pension
as usual that day, and by his manner would make his friends understand
that it was time to be done with the whole affair.
That evening all the other boarders, including Trunfo, arrived at the
house. Then Biagio Speranza arrived, and was at once assailed with
questions.
“Why, of course! Naturally!” he answered with a gay face. “When did I
return? Exactly at midnight. The hour of fantasy. The door was closed,
and she, the very one who has been denying it, threw me down the key
from her window. Why deny it, my wife? We owe this satisfaction to
our friends who are so interested in our conjugal felicity. And this
evening you will see me remain here at my post, as master of the house;
and I hope that this will satisfy you, and that from now on you will
allow me to enjoy the pleasures of married life in peace. Is it agreed?”
He seated himself beside Carolinona; during the meal he ostentatiously
displayed, amid general merriment, all the attentions, the manners of
an enamored monkey which a newly married man should show to his bride,
and Carolinona let him have his way, and laughed too.
At a certain point Trunfo gruffly asked Biagio Speranza: “Will you
permit me to continue correcting my papers here?”
“No, no!” Biagio hastened to reassure him. “You, dear _maestro_, are
free to suit your own convenience here by day or night. Am I not right,
Carolinona?”
“The _maestro_,” said she, somewhat quietly, “has never caused me the
least annoyance.”
“Very well then!” concluded Trunfo, rising.
He made a quick, slight bow, with his hands resting on the back of his
chair, and left the room, suffocated with bile.
“My friends,” remarked Biagio Speranza, a little later, “in the
interest of my wife, I advise you to stop, if you do not wish to make
her lose a client. A joke is all very well, but it should not be
allowed to injure the pocket--”
“Oh, as for you, joking aside,” declared Cariolin, rising from the
table with the others, “keep your promise, and do not take this excuse.
We are going, and wish you a pleasant evening.”
“I,” added Scossi, “shall remain with Cedebonis outside the door on
guard; and you may be sure that I will not let you escape.”
“You may all be sure that I shall not escape,” replied Biagio Speranza,
accompanying his fellow boarders to the door.
Carolinona began to feel uneasy, not knowing what this crazy fellow
would do next.
“What fools, eh?” said Biagio, once more entering the dining-room.
“And they are really capable of waiting outside in the street, do you
know it?”
Carolinona tried to smile and look at him, but she lowered her eyes
promptly.
“Do you know that our position is actually ridiculous?” resumed Biagio,
breaking out into his sonorous laughter. “But we must do this in order
to have peace. Otherwise they will never have done. I will wait a half
hour before I go; you must have patience.”
“Oh, as for me, of course,” said she, without raising her eyes, and
faintly.
Biagio Speranza looked at her. He was very calm himself, and thought
that she ought to be so, too. But noting Carolinona’s embarrassment he
laughed again. Wounded by this laugh, she raised her eyes, and, trying
as best she could to hide the bitterness with a smile, said:
“You are a man, and they all know that you are only doing this to make
them laugh. Although, if I am to tell the truth, I do not see that it
is a joke any longer, now that it has arrived at this point--They are
all laughing at you and me--”
“Let us laugh too!” concluded Biagio. “Why not?”
“Because I can not,” promptly replied Carolinona. “Pardon me, but you
must understand that it can not please me that you, to make an end to
an annoying joke, are forced to make me play a part that does not suit
me--”
“What!” exclaimed Biagio. “The rôle of wife! By heavens, you ought to
thank me.”
Carolinona took fire. “Pardon me, and am I to thank you also for
the words you said to Trunfo on my account? Your wife for a joke I
understand; but since you have committed the folly of giving me your
name in the eyes of the law, it seems to me, I do not know, but it
seems to me that you ought at least to show that you do not believe
certain calumnies, and not make a jest of them. Because they are
calumnies I would have you to know! The vilest calumnies! I have always
attended to my own business. I am poor, yes, but honest, honest! It is
well that you should know it. And you may set your mind at rest on this
point--”
Biagio looked at her and let his arms fall. “You alarm me, Carolinona!
I did not believe you capable of telling the truth with such insistence
and such warmth. I believe you, I believe you--but let me look out of
this window and see if those tiresome fellows are gone, and we will
make an end to this at once.”
He went to the window and looked out into the street. “No one,” said
he, turning away. “I am sorry that the joke has finished really badly.
Enough; the thing is done, and we must think no more about it. Good-by,
eh?”
He held out his hand; the Pentoni hesitatingly laid her own, fat and
black, in it, murmuring: “Good-by.” Then, all vibrating with emotion,
she shut herself up in her room, and burst into tears.
Biagio Speranza, having taken a few steps, saw, spying in the shadows
of the little square opposite the door, instead of Scossi and
Cedebonis, Signor Martinelli, who was rubbing his hands with the cold.
The good man was quite robbed of breath at hearing his name called.
Then a hand smote him sharply on the shoulder.
“What are you doing here, my fine fellow? Tell me, were you perhaps
waiting until I should have gone away to--”
“May Heaven forbid! What are you saying, Signor Speranza?” stammered
poor Martinelli, so tremblingly that Biagio could not keep from
laughing. “I--I was just going--”
“And meanwhile you are here!” replied Biagio, recovering himself, and
pretending to be severe. He took him by the arm, and added as they
moved away: “Come, let us go, and explain to me--”
“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.