“But it is not true at all,” said he, brusquely and shortly.  “I questioned her myself as soon as I heard the gossip.  It is nothing but the maliciousness of people.  Why, the man does not even see her!”

“Oh!  Don Rocco,” said the lady.  “You are good, good, good.  But as the world is not made that way, and as there is a scandal, if you don’t make up your mind to send the creature away, I must decide on something myself.”

“You will do what you like,” answered the priest dryly.  “Have I not got to consider what is right?”

The countess looked at him, and said, with a sudden solemnity, “Very well.  You will reflect on this to-night, and to-morrow you will give me your final answer.”

She rang the bell to have a lantern brought for Don Rocco, as the night was very dark.  But, to her great surprise, Don Rocco carefully extracted one from the back pocket of his cloak.

“What made you do that?” exclaimed she.  “You have probably got a spot on my chair!”

She got up, notwithstanding the assurances of Don Rocco, and taking one of the candles which still burned on the card table, she stooped down to look at the chair.

“There!” she said, “put your nose over that!  It is spotted and ruined!”

Don Rocco came also, and, knitting his brows, bent down over a large spot of oil, a black island on the gray cloth, muttering most seriously, “Oh, yes!” and remaining absorbed in his gaze.

“Now, go!” said the lady.  “What is done is done.”

It seemed in fact, as if he were awaiting her permission to raise his nose from the repentant stool.

“Yes, I’ll go now,” he answered, lighting his lantern, “because I am alone at home at present, and I am even afraid that I left the door open.”

Very suddenly he said “Good-night,” and disappeared without even looking at the countess.

She was astonished.  “Dear me, what a boor!” she said.

II.

It was a damp, cloudy night in November.  Little Don Rocco was limping along towards his hermitage of St. Luke with awkward steps, his arms in parentheses, and his back arched, knitting his brows at the road-bed as he went along.  He was ruminating over the dark words of Signora Carlotta, and their importance was gradually piercing his obtuse brain.  He was also ruminating over the next assembly of the ecclesiastical court, over the pereat mundus and the subtle reasonings of the professor, of which he had understood so little; not to speak of the exposition of the Gospels for the next day, which he had not yet fully prepared.  All this would often get inextricably confused in his mind.  Certainly poor innocent Lucia must not be condemned, pereat mundus.  Signora Carlotta was almost a padrona to him; but what about that other great padrone?  Nemo potest duobus dominis servire; thus, beloved brethren, says the Gospel for the day.