Even thieves, I would have thought, need to have a kind of presence, which in my opinion he certainly did not have. He moved slowly, with his drooping stomach, his hands always clasped behind his back, and he spoke with great difficulty in a weak, mewing kind of voice. I would like to know how he coped with his own conscience regarding the thefts he continually committed against us. Since he had absolutely no need to do so, as I have pointed out, he must have worked out some excuse in his own mind, some justification. Perhaps he stole to keep himself occupied, poor man. In fact, he must have suffered terribly inside, being married to one of those women who know how to command respect. He had made the mistake of choosing a wife of a higher social standing than his own, which was very low. Perhaps if this woman had been married to a man of her own class, she would not have been as fussy as she was with him, to whom, naturally, she had to demonstrate at every opportunity that she was superior, and that in her home things had been done like this and like that. So Malagna, obediently, did as she said, hoping that he too could pass as a gentleman; but the effort cost him much, he was always sweating.

Apart from all this, shortly after the wedding, Guendalina fell ill with an ailment which was simply incurable, since in order to be cured, she would have had to make a sacrifice far beyond her powers: she would have had to deny herself certain little cakes made with truffles, which she loved, and other similar indulgences, including, above all, wine. Not that she drank much, that would be unthinkable, after all, she was well-born, but she should not really have touched a drop at all.

When Berto and I were children, we were occasionally invited to supper at Malagna’s house. It was hilarious to listen to him preaching self-control to his wife, with all due concern, whilst he devoured the most succulent foods with such enjoyment.

“I simply do not concede,” he would say, “that for the momentary pleasure the appetite enjoys at the consumption of a mouthful like this …” (and down it would go) “… one should feel ill for the rest of the day. Is there any sauce? I’m sure I would feel totally humiliated afterwards for having succumbed. Rosina! (Calling the maid …) Could I have a little more? Mmmm, delicious, this piquant sauce.”

“Pigant,” his wife would spit, enraged. “If only God would make you see what it’s like to have bad digestion. Then you would learn some consideration towards your wife.”

“Come now, Guendalina! Am I not considerate?” Malagna would exclaim as he poured himself a little wine. In reply, his wife would leap up from her seat, snatch the glass from his hand and toss the contents through the window.

“Why?” he would groan, without moving from his seat, and his wife would reply,

“Because as far as I am concerned it is poison! Do you ever see me pour a drop into my glass? If you ever do, you must take it from me and throw it out of the window, as I have just done. Do you understand?”

Malagna looked around, mortified, smirking. He looked from me to Berto, to the window, to the glass, then said,

“Good lord, are you a child then? Me? Use violence? No my dear, you must control yourself, all on your own….”

“How?” his wife screamed, “With temptation right under my nose? Seeing you drinking all the time, tasting it, holding it up to the light, just to spite me? If you were a different sort of husband, you wouldn’t want me to suffer…”

In fact, Malagna was reduced to stopping drinking wine in order to give his wife a good example of self-control and prevent her suffering. No wonder he stole. He had to do something to console himself.

However, shortly after he had given up drink, he found out that Guendalina drank wine on the sly, as if as long as her husband did not know about it, it would do her no harm. So Malagna started drinking again too, but only out of his own home, so as not to upset his wife.

He carried on stealing however, but I know his heart’s desire was that his wife should compensate him for the endless suffering she caused him, by one day bearing him a son. So the theft had an aim, an excuse, for what would we not do for our children?

His wife however grew weaker as the days went by, and Malagna did not even dare mention this burning desire to her. Maybe she was naturally infertile. She had to be very careful with her health, and what if she died in childbirth, God forbid? There was also the risk that she might not carry the pregnancy to term, so he resigned himself.

Was he sincere? He did not show many signs of sincerity after Guendalina’s death. He wept for her, indeed he wept floods, and always recalled her with such devotion and respect that he said he did not want to replace her with another gentlewoman, and he could well have done so, rich as he had become. Instead, he chose a farmer’s daughter, who was healthy, blooming, sturdy and cheerful. This he did solely to ensure he would have the offspring he desired. Perhaps he was rather hasty, but never mind, he had also to consider that he was no longer young and had no time to lose.

Oliva was the daughter of the farm manager at Le Due Riviere and I had known her well as a young girl. Thanks to her, I gave my mother hope that I was coming to my senses and growing to love the countryside. She was beside herself with joy, poor thing.