Jacopo, Jacopo Sturzi, Tuda's father, my ex-fiancèe's father!... How can it be, if I, I myself, with these hands, a year ago, laid him out in a coffin and accompanied him to Campo Verano cemetery? Yet, lo and behold, there he is. He passes in front of me. Oh, Cod!... And he turns around to look at me, and bends his head to one side as if to let me see his smile. And what a smile! I'm nailed to the ground, gripped by a convulsive tremor. I try to shout, but my voice doesn't issue from my throat. I follow him a while with my eyes. Finally I manage to overcome my fear, and dash after him.

Believe me, I beg you. I'm unable to invent a story of this sort. It would be impossible to repeat what he told me word for word; but you can easily understand that certain ideas can't be produced by my mind, because Jacopo Sturzi, though quite an intemperate man, was a true philosopher, a most original philosopher, and he spoke to me with the wisdom of the dead.

I caught up with him while he was already about to place his small, trembling hand on the handle of the glass door of a tavern. He swung around, took hold of my arm, and, dragging me over into the shady darkness, said:

"Luzzi, for heaven's sake, please don't say I'm alive!"

"Why, how... you?" I stuttered.

"Yes, I'm dead, Luzzi," he added, "but my bad habit, you understand, is stronger! I'll explain right away. There are those who, when they die, are mature for another life, and those who are not. The former die and never again return, because they have succeeded in finding their way... The latter instead return, because they were unable to find it; and naturally they seek it right where they lost it. For me, that's here, in the tavern. But it's not like you think. It's my punishment. I drink, and it's as if I'm not drinking, because the more I drink, the thirstier I become. And then, as you can readily understand, I can't afford to treat myself too lavishly."

And, rubbing together the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, he contracted his face into a grimace, intending to signify with that gesture: I don't have any money.

I looked at him, stupefied. Was I dreaming? And this foolish question came to my lips:

"Oh, of course! And how do you get by?"

He smiled and then, placing a hand on my shoulder, answered:

"If you only knew!... The very day after my burial, I began by selling back the beautiful porcelain plaque that my wife had ordered placed on my tomb. In the center it bore the inscription 'To my adored spouse.' Now, we, the dead, cannot stand certain lies, so I sold it back for a few lire. In that way I managed to get along for a week. There's no danger that my wife might come to pay me a visit and notice that the plaque is no longer there. Now I play cards with the customers, and since I win, I drink at the loser's expense. In short... it's an enterprise. And what do you do?"

I was unable to answer him. I looked at him for a moment, then, in an outburst of madness, I seized him by the arm.

"Tell me the truth! Who are you? How is it that you're here?"

He didn't lose his composure, but smiled and said:

"But if it was you yourself who recognized me!...