“It is Don Rocco’s opinion,” concluded the professor, “that the priest should act as a policeman.”

Poor Don Rocco, tortured in his conscience between the feeling that he ought not to discuss the question in a secular conversation and a feeling of reverence for his bantering friend who was an ecclesiastic of mature age and a professor in the Episcopal seminary of P—–­, was twisting himself about and mumbling excuses.

“No...the fact is...I say...it seems to me...”

“I am surprised, Don Rocco, that you should think it worth while to make excuses,” said the lady.  “It amazes me that you should take seriously the jests of the professor.”

But the professor protested, and with subtle questions pushed Don Rocco to the wall and began to squeeze out of him, little by little, the peculiar combination of right instincts and crooked arguments which he had in his head, showing him with the greatest charm of manner the fallacy of all his bad reasons and of all his good sense, and leaving him in a stupor of contrite humility.  But the game lasted only a short while, because the countess dismissed the company with the excuse that it was after eleven o’clock.  However, she asked Don Rocco to remain.

It was the Countess Carlotta who had chosen him, a few years before, as rector of the Church of St. Luke, which was her property.  She took with him a sort of Episcopal air which was peacefully accepted by the thankful priest, as simple in spirit as he was humble-hearted.

“You would do better, my dear Don Rocco,” said she when they were alone, “to bother yourself less with such affairs as that of Sigismondo, and a little more with your own.”

“But why?” asked Don Rocco, surprised.  “I do not know what you mean.”

“Of course; the whole village knows it, but you are in complete ignorance.”

Her eyes added quite clearly, “Poor simpleton.”  Don Rocco remained silent.

“When does Lucia return?” asked she.  This Lucia was the servant of Don Rocco, to whom he had given permission to go home for five days.

“On Sunday,” he answered.  “To-morrow evening.  Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed, smiling with satisfaction at his own keenness.  “Now I understand, now I see what you mean.  But it is not so, it is not so at all.”

He had at last understood that it was a question of certain rumors current in the village on a love affair of his servant with a certain Moro, a bad specimen, well known at the police court, who combined craft with malevolence and strength in a most diabolical manner.  Some believed that he was not entirely bad, but that necessity and the ill-treatment of an unjust master had led him to wrongdoing; but every one feared him.

“It is not true at all, is it?” answered she.  “Then I don’t know what the village will say when certain novelties will happen to the servant of the priest.”

Don Rocco became red as fire and frowned most portentously.