“It will go with your railway as with your festival.” Donna Micaela thought so too, but now she thought that she had closed all ways of escape for herself; now she must go on being good. “My festival will soon be in full swing,” she said calmly. “Listen to me, Donna Micaela,” said the man. “The last thing a man ceases to believe good of is himself. No one can cease to have hope for himself.” “No; why should he?” He made a movement as if he were impatient with her confidence. “When I first began to think about the thing,” he said, “I was easily consoled. ‘There have been a few unfortunate occurrences,’ I said to myself, ‘so you have the reputation, and it has become a belief. It is the belief that has made the trouble. People have met you, and people have believed that they would come to grief, and come to grief they did. It is a misfortune worse than death to be considered a _jettatore_, but you need not yourself believe it.’” “It is so absurd,” said Donna Micaela. “Yes, of course, whence should my eyes have got the power to bring misfortune? And when I thought of it I determined to make a trial. I travelled to a place where no one knew me. The next day I read in the paper that the train on which I had travelled had run over a flagman. When I had been one day in the hotel, I saw the landlord in despair, and all the guests leaving. What had happened? I asked. ‘One of our servants has been taken with small-pox.’ Ah, what a wretched business! “Well, Donna Micaela, I shut myself in and drew back from all intercourse with people. When a year had passed I had found peace. I asked myself why I was shut in so. ‘You are a harmless man,’ I said; ‘you wish to hurt no one. Why do you live as miserably as a criminal?’ I had just meant to go back to life again, when I met Fra Felice in one of the passages. ‘Fra Felice, where is the cat?’--‘The cat, signor?’--‘Yes, the monastery cat, that used to come and get milk from me; where is he now?’--‘He was caught in a rat-trap.’--‘What do you say, Fra Felice?’--‘He got his paw in a steel trap and he could not get loose. He dragged himself to one of the garrets and died of starvation.’ What do you say to that, Donna Micaela?” “Was it supposed to be your fault that the cat died?” “I am a _jettatore_.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Ah, what folly!”