The sullen brigand was cutting dead-wood out of a fig tree with a saw. His face was supremely happy. The widow stood beneath and directed him.
"Closer to the tree, stupid," she said, "else the wound will not heal properly."
The youngest brigand laid a hand that trembled upon Asabri's arm.
"Oh, my father," he said, "these doves are already cooing! And it is very far to the place where I would be."
But Asabri went first to the fig tree, and he said to the widow:
"Yes," she said, "we have agreed to differ for the rest of our lives. It seems that this stupid fellow needs somebody to look after him. And it seems to be God's will that that somebody should be I."
"Bless you then, my children," said Asabri; "and farewell! I shall come to the wedding."
They returned the notary to his little home in the village; and the fees which he was to receive for the documents which he was to draw up made him so happy that he flung his arms about his wife, who was rather a prim person, and fell to kissing her with the most boisterous good will.
It was dusk when they reached the village in which the sweetheart of the youngest brigand lived. Asabri thought that he had never seen a girl more exquisite.
"And we have loved each other," said the youngest brigand, his arm about her firm, round waist, "since we were children.... I think I am dying, I am so happy."
"Shall you buy a farm, a barge, a business?" asked the banker.
"Whatever is decided," said the girl, "it will be a paradise."
"I have counted the money. It is correct."
Then he rolled his fat eyes heavenward, just as the youngest brigand had prophesied, and said: "Bless you, my children!"
"I must be going," said Asabri; "but there is one thing."
"You have not kissed," said Asabri; "let it be now, so that I may remember."
Without embarrassment, the young brigand and his sweetheart folded their arms closely about each other, and kissed each other, once, slowly, with infinite tenderness.
"I am nineteen," said the youngest brigand; then, and he looked heavenward: "God help us to forget the years that have been wasted!"
Asabri drove toward Rome, his headlights piercing the darkness. The champagne was no longer in his blood. He was in a calm, judicial mood.