In the evening he went in person, hoping to be
received; but a maid informed him that her mistress was in great pain
and could see no one. On the Saturday, towards five o'clock, he came
back once more, still hoping for better luck.
He left his house on foot. The evening was chill and gray, and a heavy
leaden twilight was settling over the city. The lamps were already
lighted round the fountain in the Piazza Barberini like pale tapers
round a funeral bier, and the Triton, whether being under repair or for
some other reason, had ceased to spout water. Down the sloping roadway
came a line of carts drawn by two or three horses harnessed in single
file, and bands of workmen returning home from the new buildings. A
group of these came swaying along arm in arm, singing a lewd song at the
pitch of their voices.
Andrea stopped to let them pass. Two or three of the debased,
weather-beaten faces impressed themselves on his memory. He noticed that
a carter had his hand wrapped in a blood-stained bandage, and that
another, who was kneeling in his cart, had the livid complexion, deep
sunken eyes and convulsively contracted mouth of a man who has been
poisoned. The words of the song were mingled with guttural cries, the
cracking of whips, the grinding of wheels, the jingling of horse bells
and shrill discordant laughter.
His mental depression increased.
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