to have given way in him, like a badly built wall.
'What are we doing, my God, Santissima Madonna!' he cried in an unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. 'What am I about, old fool, madman, frenetico?'
Sanin wondered and laughed, and putting his arm lightly round Pantaleone's waist, he reminded him of the French proverb: 'Le vin est tiré—il faut le boire!'
'Yes, yes,' answered the old man, 'we will drain the cup together to the dregs—but still I 'm a madman! I 'm a madman! All was going on so quietly, so well . . . and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!'
'Like the tutti in the orchestra,' observed Sanin with a forced smile. 'But it's not your fault.'
'I know it's not. I should think not indeed! And yet . . . such insolent conduct! Diavolo, diavolo!' repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking his topknot.
The carriage still rolled on and on.
It was an exquisite morning. The streets of Frankfort, which were just beginning to show signs of life, looked so clean and snug; the windows of the houses glittered in flashes like tinfoil; and as soon as the carriage had driven beyond the city walls, from overhead, from a blue but not yet glaring sky, the larks'
83
