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Think of that bad fellow, whose salute your father is ashamed to return: he is always roaming with miscreants worse than himself, and some day he will go to the galleys. Well, I knew him as a boy, and he began as you are doing. Reflect that you will reduce your father and mother to the same end as his." Ferruccio held his peace.
Forgive me, grandmother." "Yes, my son, I forgive you with all my heart. Think, how could I help forgiving you! Rise from your knees, my child. I will never scold you again. You are so good, so good! Let us light the lamp. Let us take courage a little. Rise, Ferruccio." "Thanks, grandmother," said the boy, and his voice was still weaker. "Now I am content.
Perfect eclecticism had been exercised in the making up of the programme. One found mixed together the names of Mozart, Wagner, and Brahms; César Franck and Gustave Charpentier; Richard Strauss and Mahler. There were French singers like Cazeneuve and Daraux, and French and Italian virtuosi like Henri Marteau and Ferruccio Busoni, together with German, Austrian, and Scandinavian artists.
"Grandmamma!" replied the lad. The old woman made an effort to speak; but terror had paralyzed her tongue. She remained silent for a while, trembling violently. Then she succeeded in asking: "They are not here now?" "No." "They did not kill me," murmured the old woman in a stifled voice. "No; you are safe," said Ferruccio, in a weak voice. "You are safe, dear grandmother.
"Ah, no!" she said, after a long silence, "you have no heart for your poor grandmother. You have no feeling, to take advantage in this manner of the absence of your father and mother, to cause me sorrow. You have left me alone the whole day long. You had not the slightest compassion. Take care, Ferruccio! You are entering on an evil path which will lead you to a sad end.
No; let us still remain in the dark! I am still afraid." "Grandmother," resumed the boy, "I have always caused you grief." "No, Ferruccio, you must not say such things; I shall never think of that again; I have forgotten everything, I love you so dearly!" "I have always caused you grief," pursued Ferruccio, with difficulty, and his voice quivered; "but I have always loved you. Do you forgive me?
Ferruccio had only returned home at eleven o'clock, after an absence of many hours, and his grandmother had watched for him with eyes wide open, filled with anxiety, nailed to the large arm-chair, upon which she was accustomed to pass the entire day, and often the whole night as well, since a difficulty of breathing did not allow her to lie down in bed.
The woman who came to do the work by day had gone away at nightfall. In the house there was only the grandmother with the paralyzed legs, and Ferruccio, a lad of thirteen.
"Ah, Ferruccio," continued his grandmother, perceiving that he was thus dumb, "not a word of penitence do you utter to me! You see to what a condition I am reduced, so that I am as good as actually buried.
His grandmother heard it also. "What is it?" asked the grandmother, in perturbation, after a momentary pause. "The rain," murmured the boy. "Then, Ferruccio," said the old woman, drying her eyes, "you promise me that you will be good, that you will not make your poor grandmother weep again " Another faint sound interrupted her.
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