Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - III
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of feather broom, and when he thinks nobody
sees him he bends down to sweep a little star dust
from the golden floor. He does not seem to
know himself why he does it, he says he cannot
help it. I wonder who he was in life. He came
here not long ago, he may be able to tell you all
you want to know about the Last Judgment.”
I looked at the white robed spirit, it was my
friend Arcangelo Fusco, the street sweeper from
the Italian poor quarter in Paris! The same
humble, guileless eyes, the same flower stuck over
his ear, the rose he had offered with southern
gallantry to the Countess the day I had taken her
to present the dolls to the Salvatore children.
“Dear Arcangelo Fusco,” said I stretching out
my hands towards my friend, “I never doubted
you would come here.”
He looked at me with serene indifference as if
he did not know me.
“Arcangelo Fusco, don’t you recognize me,
don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember
how tenderly you nursed night and day
Salvatore’s children when they had diphtheria, how
you sold your Sunday clothes to pay for the
coffin when the eldest child died, the little girl
you loved so?”
A shadow of suffering passed over his face.
“I do not remember.”
“Ah! my friend! what a tremendous secret
you are revealing to me with these words! What
a load you are taking from my heart! You do
not remember! But how is it that I remember?”
“Perhaps you are not really dead, perhaps
you are only dreaming you are dead.”
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