"That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your health? Who will give you advice?"
"Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my wine."
"And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?" said Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.
"Give here, give here," said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.
"Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is has happened to my master?" said Perpetua, standing upright before him, with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as if to extract the secret from his eyes.
"For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your pother; this is a matter that concerns—concerns my life."
"Your life!"
"My life."
"You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I have never"
"Yes, forsooth, as when"
Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore, changing suddenly her note, "My dear master," said she, in a moving tone of voice, "I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wish to know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, to give you advice, to relieve your mind."
The truth is, that Don Abbondio's desire to disburden himself of his painful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge of it; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewed assaults; after having made her swear many times that she would not breathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations, related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce the dread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required from Perpetua
