The lawyer hastily motioned with his hand to quiet him; the judge raised his eyebrows, as though to say: “And suppose he had said so a hundred times, is it our fault that we are not convinced?” And a woman’s sob was heard through the courtroom.
Giovanna had broken down, and Aunt Bachissia at once dragged her towards the door, reluctant and tearful. Everyone but the public prosecutor watched the struggle between the two women.
A little later the court withdrew to deliberate.
Aunt Bachissia, followed by two of the neighbours, hauled Giovanna into the square, where, instead of trying to comfort her, she fell to scolding her roundly. Was she quite mad? Did she want to be removed by force? “If you don’t behave yourself,” she concluded, “I declare I’ll give you a good beating!”
“Mamma, oh! mamma,” sobbed the other. “They are going to condemn him! They are going to take him from me, and I can do nothing, I can do nothing—!”
“What do you expect to do?” asked one of the neighbours. “As sure as I am alive there is nothing for you to do. Be patient, though, and wait a little longer—”
At this moment three figures in black appeared, one of them laughing and limping. They were Paolo Porru and two young priests, friends of his.
“There she is now,” said the student. “It looks as though he had been sentenced already!”
“Upon my word,” remarked one of the priests, “she is indeed a young colt! One that knows how to kick, too! She looks—”
The other one, meanwhile, was staring curiously at Giovanna, and as they all three approached the Eras, Paolo asked if the argument had closed. “It’s the man who murdered his uncle, isn’t it?” enquired one of the priests. The other continued to stare at Giovanna, who had begun to regain her self-control.
“He has murdered no one at all,” said Aunt Bachissia haughtily. “Murderer yourself, black crows that you are!”
“Crows, are we? Well, you are a witch!” retorted the priest. Upon which the bystanders began to laugh.
Giovanna, meanwhile, at the solicitation of Paolo, had become quite calm, and she now promised not to make a scene if they would let her return to the courtroom. They all, accordingly, went in together, and found that the jury, after a brief deliberation, were already taking their seats. A profound silence fell upon the dim, hot room. Giovanna heard an insect humming and buzzing against one of the windows; her limbs grew heavy; she felt as though her body, her arms, her legs, were strung on rods of ice-cold iron. Then the judge pronounced the sentence in a low, careless voice, while the prisoner looked at him fixedly and held his breath. Giovanna kept hearing the buzzing of the fly, and was conscious of a feeling of intense dislike for that rosy, white-bearded man, not so much on account of what he was saying, but because he said it with such an air of indifference. And this was what it was:
A sentence of twenty-seven years’ imprisonment “for the homicide who, after long premeditation, had at last committed the crime upon the person of his guardian and own uncle by blood!”
Giovanna had so entirely prepared her mind to expect thirty years, that for the first moment twenty-seven seemed a respite, but it was only for a moment; then, swiftly realising that in thirty years three count for nothing, she had to bite her lips violently to keep back the shriek that rose to them. Everything grew dim before her; by a desperate effort of the will she forced herself to look at Costantino, and saw, or thought she saw, his face old and grey, his eyes, dim and vacant, wandering aimlessly about him. Ah! he was not looking at her, he was not even looking at her any more! Already he was parted from her forever. He was dead, though still among the living; they had killed him! Those fat, self-satisfied men, who sat there in perfect indifference, awaiting their next victim. She felt her reason forsaking her, and suddenly a succession of piercing shrieks rent the air; someone seized her, and she was dragged out again into the sunlit square.
“Daughter! daughter! Do you know what you are doing? You must be mad! You are howling like a wild beast!” cried Aunt Bachissia, grasping her by the arm. “And what good will it do? There is the appeal still—the Court of Cassation—do be quiet, my soul!”
All this had happened in a few moments. The witnesses, the lawyer, Paolo Porru, and the others now came crowding around the women, trying to think of something to say to comfort them. Giovanna, dry-eyed and staring, was sobbing in a heartbroken way, disjointed sentences falling from her lips, expressions of passionate tenderness for Costantino, and wild threats and imprecations addressed to the jury. She begged so hard to be allowed to remain until the condemned man should be brought out, that they agreed. At last he appeared; bent, livid, sunken-eyed; grown prematurely old.
Giovanna rushed forward, and, as the carbineers made no motion to stop, she went ahead of them, walking backwards, smiling into her husband’s face, telling him that it would all be set right in the Court of Cassation, and that she would sell everything, to the very clothes on her back, in order to save him. But he only stared back at her, wide-eyed, unseeing; and when the carbineers pushed her gently aside, one of them saying: “Go away, my good woman, go off now, and try to be patient,” he too said: “Yes, go away, Giovanna, try to get permission to see me before I am taken away, and—bring the child, and take courage.”
So Giovanna and her mother went back to the house, where Aunt Porredda embraced and wept over them; then, however, appearing to repent of such weakness, she set about
