"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.