The old dealer laughed with a crackling sound in his withered throat, like the rattling of stones in a tin pot.
"Good, good!" he croaked. "I like that, I like that! Thou art old, but thou art merry. That pleases me; one should laugh always. Why not? Death laughs; you never see a solemn skull; it laughs always!"
And he plunged his long lean fingers into a deep drawer full of miscellaneous garments, mumbling to himself all the while. I stood beside him in silence, pondering on his words, "Thou art OLD, but merry." What did he mean by calling ME old? He must be blind, I thought, or in his dotage. Suddenly he looked up.
"Talking of the plague," he said, "it is not always wise. It did a foolish thing yesterday--a very foolish thing. It took one of the richest men in the neighborhood, young too, strong and brave; looked as if he would never die. The plague touched him in the morning--before sunset he was nailed up and put down in his big family vault--a cold lodging, and less handsomely furnished than his grand marble villa on the heights yonder. When I heard the news I told the Madonna she was wicked. Oh, yes! I rated her soundly; she is a woman, and capricious; a good scolding brings her to reason. Look you! I am a friend to God and the plague, but they both did a stupid thing when they took Count Fabio Romani."
I started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of indifference.
"Indeed!" I said, carelessly. "And pray who was he that he should not deserve to die as well as other people?"
The old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me with his keen black eyes.
"Who was he? who was he?" he cried, in a shrill tone. "Oh, he! One can see you know nothing of Naples. You have not heard of the rich Romani? See you, I wished him to live. He was clever and bold, but I did not grudge him that--no, he was good to the poor; he gave away hundreds of francs in charity. I have seen him often--I saw him married." And here his parchment face screwed itself into an expression of the most malignant cruelty. "Pah! I hate his wife--a fair, soft thing, like a white snake! I used to watch them both from the corners of the streets as they drove along in their fine carriage, and I wondered how it would all end, whether he or she would gain the victory first. I wanted HIM to win; I would have helped him to kill her, yes! But the saints have made a mistake this time, for he is dead, and that she-devil has all. Oh, yes! God and the plague have done a foolish thing for once."