“One morning she was found in bed, lifeless and already quite cold, with a cotton mask soaked in chloroform over her face.

“Her coffin was covered with flowers, the church was hung in white.  There was a large crowd at the funeral ceremony.

“Ah! well, if I had known—­but you never can know—­I would have married that girl, for she was infernally pretty.”

“And what became of the mother?”

“Oh! she shed a lot of tears over it.  She has only begun to receive visits again for the past week.”

“And what explanation is given of the girl’s death?”

“Oh! they pretended that it was an accident caused by a new stove, the mechanism of which got out of order.  As a good many such accidents have occurred, the thing seemed probable enough.”

A VENDETTA

The widow of Paolo Saverini lived alone with her son in a poor little house on the outskirts of Bonifacio.  The town, built on an outjutting part of the mountain, in places even overhanging the sea, looks across the straits, full of sandbanks, towards the southernmost coast of Sardinia.  Beneath it, on the other side and almost surrounding it, is a cleft in the cliff like an immense corridor which serves as a harbor, and along it the little Italian and Sardinian fishing boats come by a circuitous route between precipitous cliffs as far as the first houses, and every two weeks the old, wheezy steamer which makes the trip to Ajaccio.

On the white mountain the houses, massed together, makes an even whiter spot.  They look like the nests of wild birds, clinging to this peak, overlooking this terrible passage, where vessels rarely venture.  The wind, which blows uninterruptedly, has swept bare the forbidding coast; it drives through the narrow straits and lays waste both sides.  The pale streaks of foam, clinging to the black rocks, whose countless peaks rise up out of the water, look like bits of rag floating and drifting on the surface of the sea.

The house of widow Saverini, clinging to the very edge of the precipice, looks out, through its three windows, over this wild and desolate picture.

She lived there alone, with her son Antonia and their dog “Semillante,” a big, thin beast, with a long rough coat, of the sheep-dog breed.  The young man took her with him when out hunting.

One night, after some kind of a quarrel, Antoine Saverini was treacherously stabbed by Nicolas Ravolati, who escaped the same evening to Sardinia.

When the old mother received the body of her child, which the neighbors had brought back to her, she did not cry, but she stayed there for a long time motionless, watching him.  Then, stretching her wrinkled hand over the body, she promised him a vendetta.  She did not wish anybody near her, and she shut herself up beside the body with the dog, which howled continuously, standing at the foot of the bed, her head stretched towards her master and her tail between her legs.  She did not move any more than did the mother, who, now leaning over the body with a blank stare, was weeping silently and watching it.