"When you lose an object, you put up a candle to St. Anthony of
Padua," said Marietta, weary but resolved.
"Not unless you wish to recover the object," contended Peter.
Marietta stared at him, blinking.
"I have no wish to recover the object I have lost," he
continued blandly. "The loss of it is a new, thrilling,
humanising experience. It will make a man of me--and, let us
hope, a better man. Besides, in a sense, I lost it long ago
--'when first my smitten eyes beat full on her,' one evening at
the Francais, three, four years ago. But it's essential to my
happiness that I should see the person into whose possession it
has fallen. That is why I am not angry with you for being a
witch. It suits my convenience. Please arrange with the
powers of darkness to the end that I may meet the person in
question tomorrow at the latest. No!" He raised a forbidding
hand. "I will listen to no protestations. And, for the rest,
you may count upon my absolute discretion.
'She is the darling of my heart
And she lives in our valley,'"
he carolled softly.
"E del mio cuore la carina,
E dimor' nella nostra vallettina," he obligingly translated. "But for all the good I get of her,
she might as well live on the top of the Cornobastone," he
added dismally. "Yes, now you may bring me my coffee--only,
let it be tea. When your coffee is coffee it keeps me awake at
night."
Marietta trudged back to her kitchen, nodding at the sky.
The next afternoon, however, the Duchessa di Santangiolo
appeared on the opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco.