Don Rocco ordered him to stand on guard before the entrance of the house and went down to look for them himself, in his shirt.  Half-way down the stairs he stopped and sniffed.  What an abominable odor of pipe was this?  Don Rocco, with darkened brow, went on.  He went directly to the sitting-room, looked, searched; there was nothing.  He returned to the kitchen, his heart beating.  A horrid smell, but no clothes.  Yes, under the table there was a little pile of soiled things; a jacket, a pair of drawers, a peasant’s hat.  Don Rocco gathered up, unfolded, and examined them with portentous frowns.  It seemed to him that he had seen these things somewhere before.  His brain did not yet understand anything, but his heart began to understand and to beat more strongly than before.  He took hold of his chin and his cheeks with his left hand, squeezed them hard, trying to squeeze from them the where, the how, and the when.  And lo! his eyes rested on the wall, and he finally perceived something there which was not there the day before.  There was written in charcoal on the right:  “Many salutations.”  And on the left: 

“The wine is good.”

“The servant is good.”

“The cloak is good.”

“Don Rocco is good.”

He read, raised his hand to his head, read again—­read again, seemed to lose his eyesight, felt a sensation of cold, of torpidity spreading from his breast throughout his body.  Some one called out in the courtyard, “Where is that Don Rocco?” With difficulty he went up to his room again, cast himself on his bed, almost without knowing what he was doing, almost without thought or sensation.

Below they were looking and calling for him.  Professor Marin was there, and some few other persons who had come to attend the Mass.  No one could understand how the door of the church was still closed.  The professor went into the house, called Lucia, called Don Rocco, without receiving any answer.  He finally reached the room of the priest and stood still on the doorsill, amazed to see him in bed.  “Well,” said he, “Don Rocco! in bed?  And what about Mass?”

“I cannot,” answered Don Rocco in a low voice, immovable on his back like a mummy.

“But what is it?” replied the other, approaching the bed with sincere alarm.  “What is the matter with you?”

This troubled face, this affectionate tone, softened poor Don Rocco’s heart, petrified by pain and surprise.  This time two real tears fell from his palpitating eyelids.  His mouth, closed tight, was twisting and trembling, but still resisted.  Seeing then that he answered not a word, the professor ran to the stairs and called down that the physician should be sent for.

“No, no,” Don Rocco forced himself to say without moving.  His voice was filled with sobs.  The professor heard him only as he was returning to the bed.

“No?” said he.  “But what, then, is the matter?  Speak.”

Meanwhile three poor women and a beggar, who had come to listen to Mass, entered quite frightened into the room, surrounding the two, and in their turn questioning Don Rocco.  He kept silent like a Job, seeking to master himself.  Perhaps his annoyance at all these curious faces hanging over his own helped him.  “Go away,” said he finally to the last comers.  “There is no need of the doctor, no need of anything, go away!”