"Oh-h-h," groaned Marietta. She stared at the ceiling for an

instant.

The Cardinal patted her hand. "Courage, courage," he said.

"Oh--Signorino mio," she groaned again, "this you never can

forgive me. It is about the little pig, the porcellino. The

Signorino remembers the little pig, which he called Francesco?"

"Yes," answered Peter.

"The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a

home for him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him

to my nephew, who is a farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino

remembers?"

"Yes," answered Peter. "Yes, you dear old thing. I remember."

Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.

"Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The--the Signorino ate

him."

Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a

kind of half-choked "Oh?"

"Yes," whispered Marietta. "He was bought with the Signorino's

money. I did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So

I deceived the Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty."

This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal

--well, his smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big

pinch of snuff.

"I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very

sorry," Marietta said.

Peter knelt down at her bedside.

"Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing

Francesco--we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever.

And as for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own

good. I remember that chicken-pasty. It was the best

chicken-pasty I have ever tasted. You must not worry any more

about the little pig."

Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled.

"The Signorino forgives his servant?" she whispered.

Peter could not help it. He bent forward, and kissed her brown

old cheek.

"She will be easier now," said the Cardinal. "I will stay with

her a little longer."

Peter went out. The scene had been childish--do you say?

--ridiculous, almost farcical indeed? And yet, somehow, it

seemed to Peter that his heart was full of unshed tears. At

the same time, as he thought of the Cardinal, as he saw his

face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of his voice, the

words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held

Marietta's hand and patted it--at the same time a kind of

strange joy seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of

exaltation, of enthusiasm.




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