A wave of joy swept over Costantino, and from that moment he had no other thought than of how he might contrive to transcribe his verses. “I have been a student,” he said one day to the guard. “But I know how to make shoes as well. Would you like to have me make you a pair? Oh, I can fit you!”
“You want something,” said the man in Neapolitan. “But it’s no use, I will do nothing.”
“Now, Uncle Serafino, be kind! Remember your immortal soul!”
“I remember my immortal soul well enough, and I’ve told you before that I’m not your uncle; you killed your uncle.”
“All right; it does not signify; only in our part of the country we always call all the important people ‘uncle.’ ”
Don Serafino, however, wanted his own title, which Costantino, for his part, could not bring himself to employ, since in Sardinia it is used only in addressing people of noble birth; so for that day nothing was accomplished.
On the following morning the prisoner returned to the charge: he recounted how he was of good family, had received an education, and fallen heir to a fortune; this, his uncle, he whom he had been accused of murdering, had spent, and had then shut him up in a dark little room, and forced him to make shoes; and once he had torn almost the entire skin off one of his feet. He even offered to show the foot, but Don Serafino declined with an expression of horror, and cursed the dead man’s cruelty under his breath.
The result was that Costantino presently found himself in possession of a sheet of paper, and by means of blood and a small stick, he succeeded in writing out the laud for condemned prisoners. Thus the winter wore away.
One March day a visit of inspection was made to Costantino’s cell; it was under the direction of a big man, with two round, staring, pale-blue eyes, and so little chin that what he had was completely hidden by a heavy light moustache.
“Hello! you there,” he cried to the prisoner. “What can you do?” Don Serafino was with the party, and as his eye fell upon him, Costantino suddenly recalled the fancy sketch he had once given him. “I can make shoes,” he replied.
“Hello!” said the big man with the staring blue eyes. “You can? Well, you murdered your uncle.”
As the remark seemed to call for no reply, Costantino merely moved his lips, as though to say: “Certainly, I murdered my uncle; may it please your mightiness!”
The party moved on, but before long Don Serafino returned and informed the prisoner that his term of solitary confinement had been shortened by more than a third, and that he would soon be released from his cell. Costantino supposed that he owed this favour to his good behaviour, but Don Serafino explained that it was because he had interceded for him with the authorities, telling them that the prisoner was of good family, that one of his feet had been flayed, and that he could make shoes.
A few days after this Costantino was taken from the cell and set to work, in company with a number of others, at making shoes; he had, moreover, the privilege of writing once every three months to Giovanna. All of these concessions made him quite happy. Then the spring came, and the convicts, who had suffered intensely from cold, became gay and cheerful, keeping up a continual flow of chaff during working hours. Two brothers from the Abruzzi, however, who had asked as a special favour to be allowed to work together, quarrelled so incessantly over the division of a piece of property that was to be settled on their release—that is to say, in ten years’ time—that, after falling upon one another one day, they had to be separated and confined for two weeks in cells. Even then, the very first time they encountered each other during the exercise hour, they began fighting again.
It was during this hour of comparative freedom, when the prisoners took their exercise in the courtyard, that Costantino made the acquaintance of a compatriot, another Sardinian. This man, who had received the nickname of the King of Spades, on account of his triangular-shaped face, his big body, and spindle legs, was white and puffy, and so closely shaven as to look quite bald; he was an ex-marshal of carbineers, convicted of peculation, and, according to his own account, was related to a Cardinal who was secretly in friendly relations with the King and Queen. This personage, he declared, might shortly be expected to procure his pardon, and not alone his but that of any among his friends whom he should recommend; those, for instance, who supplied him with cigars, money, or stamps. He had been assigned for duty in the clerk’s office, and thus had many opportunities to communicate with persons outside, to arrange clandestine correspondences between the prisoners and their families, and to smuggle in money, tobacco, stamps, and liquor; all greatly to his own profit and advantage. It was not long before he asked Costantino if he did not wish to send a letter home.
“Yes,” replied the young man, “but I am poor; I have nothing to give you.”
“Never mind,” said the other generously; “that makes no difference, we are compatriots!” and forthwith he launched into an account of his exploits as a marshal. He had, it appeared, killed ten
