She let her hands fall, only to burst into a great lament. ‘Our Lady of Sorrows, Holy Jesus, by the wounds in your ribs let me die!’

Eugenia wept, too, in torrents.

‘Aunt, forgive me. Aunt …’

‘Uh … uh … uh …’ said Pasqualino, his mouth wide open.

‘Poor child,’ said Donna Mariuccia, coming over to Eugenia, who didn’t know where to hide her face, now streaked with red and tears at her aunt’s rage. ‘She didn’t do it on purpose, Nunzia, calm down,’ and to Eugenia: ‘Where’ve you got the candies?’

Eugenia answered softly, hopelessly, holding out one in her dirty hand: ‘I ate the other. I was hungry.’

Before her aunt could move again, to attack the child, the voice of the marchesa could be heard, from the fourth floor, where there was sun, calling softly, placidly, sweetly:

‘Nunziata!’

Aunt Nunzia looked up, her face pained as that of the Madonna of the Seven Sorrows, which was at the head of her bed.

‘Today is the first Friday of the month. Dedicate it to God.’

‘Marchesa, how good you are! These kids make me commit so many sins, I’m losing my mind, I …’ And she collapsed her face between her paw-like hands, the hands of a worker, with brown, scaly skin.

‘Is your brother not there?’

‘Poor Aunt, she got you the eyeglasses, and that’s how you thank her,’ said Mariuccia meanwhile to Eugenia, who was trembling.

‘Yes, Signora, here I am,’ answered Don Peppino, who until that moment had been half hidden behind the door of the basement room, waving a piece of cardboard in front of the stove where the beans for lunch were cooking.

‘Can you come up?’

‘My wife went to get the eyeglasses for Eugenia. I’m watching the beans. Would you wait, if you don’t mind?’

‘Then send up the child. I have a dress for Nunziata. I want to give it to her.’

‘May God reward you … very grateful,’ answered Don Peppino, with a sigh of consolation, because that was the only thing that could calm his sister. But looking at Nunziata, he realized that she wasn’t at all cheered up. She continued to weep desperately, and that weeping had so stunned Pasqualino that the child had become quiet as if by magic, and was now licking the snot that dripped from his nose, with a small, sweet smile.

‘Did you hear? Go up to the Signora Marchesa, she has a dress to give you,’ said Don Peppino to his daughter.

Eugenia was looking at something in the void, with her eyes that couldn’t see: they were staring, fixed and large. She winced, and got up immediately, obedient.

‘Say to her: ‘May God reward you,’ and stay outside the door.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Believe me, Mariuccia,’ said Aunt Nunzia, when Eugenia had gone off, ‘I love that little creature, and afterward I’m sorry, as God is my witness, for scolding her. But I feel all the blood go to my head, believe me, when I have to fight with the kids. Youth is gone, as you see –’ and she touched her hollow cheeks. ‘Sometimes I feel like a madwoman.’