So as not to weigh down her weary head, Concetta’s nun’s bands had been removed. Her short hair was thick with curls, like a child’s. But although her face had become more gaunt, it was clear that the illness had struck her at the point when her beauty was maturing and expanding, as you regularly see in brides in those parts. Her big healthy chest heaved beneath the sheet; her face, with its languishing gaze and dark circles beneath her eyes, had the warm, richly hued pallor of jasmine flowers; with every breath from between her blanched lips her small beautiful teeth were revealed, with an animal grace but now shadowed by her illness. ‘She’s dying like a saint,’ the Mother Superior told me, shaking her head. Angela overheard this and darted a vitriolic look at the Mother Superior: the look of a rival. Then she grabbed hold of that basic iron bedstead, and with a strident voice, shaken by sobbing, she began to scold her daughter thus: ‘Oh, how beautiful you used to be, my little daughter!’ she said, ‘Oh, how beautiful you were! You were like a garden of roses. You should have married a gentleman, instead of dying in this garret. Ah, daughter of my flesh, my own flesh and blood, who has murdered you? You should have stayed with your mother, who kissed your lovely mouth and would not have let you die. Everything about you was beautiful, such lovely small feet, such precious little hands. Concetta, Concetta, come back to your mother!’

All of those standing around her were silent, as if watching a show. But Concetta gave no sign of being aware of her mother’s presence. She parted her lips slightly in an exhausted and ecstatic smile that still had an irrepressible trace of flirtatiousness. And with a childish and almost extinguished voice, as frail as a spiderweb, she began to utter: ‘I see, I see …’

All of those around her held their breath. She was lowering her eyelashes, with an amorous demeanour, and her voice could barely be heard, sighing out: ‘I see a meadow, of lilies, I see saints, and angels. This beautiful palace, it’s mine, Lord! What a beautiful palace, how many crowns, for me …’ She seemed to pause as if searching for words with which to express her gratitude. Her mouth was still half open, but she was quiet now. I noticed that her fellow nuns who had gathered around her seemed to have assumed a triumphant air, as if in victory. I looked at Concetta’s graceful hand, lying lifeless now on the sheet, and realized that her elegantly oval nails had turned violet. Angela looked devastated: her silent face was as bloodless as her daughter’s, but it was wet with dense, heavy tears. She let go of Concetta’s hand and covered her face. When she looked up again, her eyes were dry and she had assumed a dignified, set expression.

Soon after, she was giving orders in the convent relating to Concetta’s funeral, which she imagined would be a sumptuous affair: ‘My daughter was a real lady!’ she declared, haughtily, to the nuns, who, in that convent, were almost all daughters of peasants and artisans. They listened with lowered heads, and nodded humbly, almost as if they were in the presence of the Abbess herself.