THE NINTH MAN
and when she sat alone she seemed as one who hugs a sweet secret.
It was in that day that I shook with an ague of disgust for life, and I wished aloud in my ignorance that death would menace me as well; and then, as if in answer to my wish, there came to me in my room Simonetta, my little friend, of whom I had less thought of sweethearting than had she been my sister. She had been crying, but now her eyes were clear.
As I looked at her she cried: "Oh, Matteo, I have had to come to you. Before you die, I want to tell you that I love you. I have always loved you, Matteo."
Had not dismay given me thought, I could have seen how vain were my boasts of a love of death. When ever did a young and lovely sweetheart come less desired to any man? I had not sense enough left to play the gallant.
"Death?" I cried. "And why death, Simonetta?"
"Oh!" she answered, wringing her hands, "it is the shoemaker's lame son, Oreste. He hates you, Matteo!"
A weight was lifted from me. I hardly
42
