!" the curate of Cima repeated with
emphasis. "And also, considering the circumstances, a mark of His
especial regard for some one else."

All, save the prefect, who was chafing inwardly, looked at the Marchesa
as if the protecting hand of the Omnipotent were suspended above her
wig. But instead that Divine Hand was hovering above the lofty bonnet of
Barborin Pasotti, and was keeping her ears tightly closed, that they
might not hear those contaminating and iniquitous words. "Curate," said
Pasotti, "as the Signora Marchesa has proposed it, shall we have a
little game? You, Paolin, Signor Giacomo, and I?"

The four, seated in their corner at the little card table, at once gave
themselves up to the luxury of unrestrained conversation, and to the
enjoyment of certain stale, Ambrosian[P] witticisms, which cling to the
_tarocchi_ cards like grease.

"I shall get there first!" Pasotti exclaimed after the first round,
laughing loudly, with the intention of proclaiming both his victory and
his good spirits.

The players had rid themselves of the phantoms; not so the others. The
deaf woman, sitting stiff and motionless on the sofa, had suffered
mortal anguish, dreading a gesture from her husband which should command
her to play. Oh, dear Lord! was she to be made to suffer this also? By
the grace of Heaven the sign was not given, and her first feeling upon
seeing the four seat themselves at the little table had been one of
relief. But at once bitter disgust seized her.

What an insult that game was to her Luisa! What contempt it showed for
poor, dear little Maria, who was dead! No one spoke to her, no one
noticed her, so she began to recite in her heart a string of _Paters_,
_Aves_, and _Glorias_, for the soul of that wicked creature seated at
the other end of the sofa, who was so old, so rapidly approaching the
moment when she must appear before her God. She repeated, for her
benefit, the prayer for the conversion of sinners which she had been in
the habit of repeating night and morning for her husband's benefit, ever
since she had discovered his over-familiarity with a certain menial
attached to her household.

When the prefect heard Pasotti's outburst of mirth, he rose to take his
leave. "Wait," said the Marchesa, "you must have a glass of wine." At
half-past nine a precious bottle of old San Colombano was usually
brought in. "I shall not drink to-night," said the prefect heroically,
"I have been greatly upset ever since