“Accidente to the grapes!” interrupts the marchesa, reddening.  “The grapes always fail.  Every thing fails under you.”

Silvestro shrinks back in terror at the sound of her harsh voice.  Oh, that those purple mountains around would cover him!  The moment of her wrath is come.  What will she say to him?

“I wish I had not an acre of vineyard,” the marchesa continues.  “Disease, or hail, or drought, or rain, it is always the same—­the grapes always fail.”

“The peasants are starving, madama,” Silvestro takes courage to say, but his voice is low and muffled.

“They have chestnuts,” she answers quickly, “let them live on chestnuts.”

Silvestro starts violently.  He draws back a step or two nearer the door.

“Let the gracious madama consider, many have not even a patch of chestnuts.  There is great misery, madama—­indeed, there is great misery.”  Silvestro goes on to say.  He must speak now or never.  “Madama”—­and he holds up his bony hands—­“you will have no rent at all from the peasants.  They must be kept all the winter.”

“Silvestro, you are a fool,” cries the marchesa, eying him contemptuously, as she would a troublesome child—­“a fool; pray how am I to keep the peasants, and pay the taxes?  I must live.”

“Doubtless, excellent madama.”  Silvestro was infinitely relieved at the calmness with which the marchesa received his announcement.  He could not have believed it.  He feels most grateful to her.  “But, if madama will speak with Fra Pacifico, he will tell her how bitter the distress must be this winter.  The Town Council”—­Silvestro, deceived by her apparent calmness, has made a mistake in naming the Town Council.  It is too late.  The words have been spoken.  Knowing his mistress’s temper, Silvestro imperceptibly glides toward the door as he mentions that body—­“The Town Council has decreed—­” His words die away in his throat at her aspect.

“Santo dei Santi!” she screams, boiling over with rage, “I forbid you to talk to me of the Town Council!”

Silvestro’s hand is upon the lock to insure escape.

“Madama—­consider,” pleads Silvestro, wellnigh desperate.  “The Town Council might appeal to Barga,” Silvestro almost whispers now.

“Let them—­let them; it is just what I should like.  Let them appeal.  I will fight them at law, and beat them in full court—­the ruffians!” She gives a short, scornful laugh.  “Yes, we will fight it out at Barga.”

Suddenly the marchesa stops.  Her eyes have now reached the balance-sheet on the last page.  She draws a long breath.

“Why, there is nothing!” she exclaims, placing her forefinger on the total, then raising her head and fixing her eyes on Silvestro—­“nothing!”

Silvestro shrinks, as it were, into himself.  He silently bows his head in terrified acquiescence.

“A thousand francs!  How am I to live on a thousand francs!”