Chapter VI: Part II: I (1)

Anna wore a pink dressing-gown of soft wool, with a low-cut sailor's collar and monk's-sleeves, so that her throat and wrists, round and pale with the warm pallor of ivory, were left uncovered. Her hair was drawn up in a rich mass on the top of her head, and confined by two or three pins of yellow tortoise-shell. Her black eyes were radiant with youth and love.

She opened the door of her room.

She had a little clock in a case of blue velvet lightly ornamented with silver; Cesare had given it to her during their honeymoon, and she always kept it by her. She looked at this, and saw that it was already eleven. The April sunshine poured merrily into the room, brightening the light colours of the upholsteries, touching with fire her bronze jewel-case, her hanging lamp of ancient Venetian wrought iron, and the silver frame of her looking-glass, and giving life to the blue forget-me-nots on the white ground of her carpet.

It was eleven. And from the other end of the apartment (where, with Stella Martini she occupied two or three rooms) Laura had sent to ask at what hour they were to start for the Campo di Marte. Anna had told the servant to answer that they would start soon after noon, and that she was getting ready.

For a moment she stood still in the middle of her room, undecided whether or not to move in the direction that her feet seemed inclined to take of their own will--pretty little feet, in black slippers embroidered with pearls.

Then she opened the door.

A short passage separated her room from her husband's. Her husband's room had a second door, letting into a small hall, whence he could leave the house without Anna's knowing it, without her hearing so much as a footstep.

She crossed the passage slowly, and leaned against the door, not to listen, but as if she lacked courage to knock. At last, very softly, she gave two quick raps with her knuckles.

There was a minute of silence.

She would never have dared to knock a second time, already penitent for having ventured to disturb her lord and master.

A cold quiet voice from within inquired, "Who is it?"

"It's I, Cesare," she said, bending down, as if to send the words through the keyhole.

"Wait a moment, please."

Patiently, with her bejewelled hand on the knob, and the train of her pink dressing-gown heaped about her feet, she waited. He never allowed her to come in at once, when she knocked at his door, he seemed to take a pleasure in prolonging and subduing her impatience.

Presently he opened the door. He was already dressed for the Campo di Marte, in the appropriate costume of a lover of horse-racing.

"Ah, my dear lady," he said, bowing with that fine gallantry which he always showed to women, "aren't you dressed yet?"

And as he spoke he looked at her with admiring eyes. She was so young and fresh, and living, with her beautiful round throat, her flower-like arms issuing from her wide monk's sleeves, and her tiny feet in their black slippers, that he took her hand, drew her to him, and kissed her on the lips. A single kiss; but her eyes lightened softly, and her red lips remained parted.

He stretched himself in an easy-chair, near his writing-desk, and puffed a cigarette. All the solid and simple yet elegant furniture of the big room which he occupied, was impregnated with that odour of tobacco, which solitary smokers create round themselves like an atmosphere.

Anna sat down, balancing herself on the arm of a chair covered with Spanish leather. One of her feet played with the train of her gown. She looked about, marvelling as she always did, at the vast room a little bleak with its olive plush, its arms, its bookcase, its handful of books in brown bindings, and here and there a bit of carved ivory or a bright-coloured neck-tie, and everywhere the smell of cigarette-smoke. His bed was long and narrow, with a head-piece of carved wood; its coverlet of old brocade fell to the floor in folds, and mixed itself with the antique Smyrna carpets that Cesare Dias had brought home from a journey in the East. Attached to the brown head-piece there was a big ivory crucifix, a specimen of Cinquecento sculpture, yellow with age. The whole room had a certain severe appearance, as if here the gallant man of the world gave himself to solitary and austere reflections, while his conscience took the upper hand and reminded him of the seriousness of life.

The big drawers of his writing desk surely contained many deep and strange secrets. Anna had often looked at them with burning, eager eyes, the eyes of one anxious to penetrate the essence of things; but she had never approached them, fearing their mysteries. Only, every day, after breakfast, when her husband was away, she had put a bunch of fresh, fragrant flowers in a vase of Satsuma, whose yellow surface was crossed by threads of gold, and placed them on the dark old desk, which thereby gained a quality of youth and poetry. He treated the flowers with characteristic indifference. Now and then he would wear one of them in his button-hole; oftener he seemed unconscious of their existence. For a week at a time jonquils would follow violets and roses would take the place of mignonette in the Satsuma vase, but Cesare would not deign to give them a look. This morning, though, he had a tea-rose bud in his button-hole, a slightly faded one that he had plucked from the accustomed nosegay; and Anna smiled at seeing it there.

"At what time are we going to the races?" she asked, remembering the business that had brought her to his room.

"In about an hour," he answered, looking up from a memorandum-book in which he was setting down certain figures with a pencil.

"You are coming with us, aren't you?"

"Yes. And yet--we shall look like a Noah's ark. Perhaps I'd better go with Giulio on the four-in-hand."

"No, no; come with us. When we are there you can go where you like."

"Naturally," he said, making another entry in his note-book.

She looked at him with shining eyes; but he continued his calculations, and paid her no attention. Only presently he asked:

"Aren't you going to dress?"

"Yes, yes," she answered softly.

And slowly she went away.

While her maid was helping her to put on her English costume of nut-coloured wool, she was wondering whether her husband would like it; she never dared to ask him what his tastes were in such matters; she tried to divine them. Before dressing, she secured round her throat by a chain an antique silver reliquary, which enclosed, however, instead of the relics of a saint, the only love letters that he had ever written to her, two little notes that had given her unspeakable pain when she had received them. And as she moved about her room at her toilet, she cast repeated glances at his portrait, which hung over her writing-table. Round her right arm she wore six little golden bracelets with pearls suspended from them; and graven upon each bracelet was one letter of his name, Cesare. Her right hand gleamed with many rings set with precious stones; but on her left hand her wedding-ring shone alone.

When she had adjusted her veil over her English felt hat, trimmed with swallows' wings, she looked at herself in the glass, and hesitated. She was afraid she wouldn't please him; her dress was too simple; it was an ordinary morning street costume.

Suddenly the door opened, and Laura appeared. As usual, she wore white, a frock of soft white wool, exquisitely delicate and graceful. Her hat was covered with white feathers, that waved with every breath of air. And in her hands she held a bunch of beautiful fresh tea-roses.

"Oh, how pretty you are!" cried Anna. "And who gave you those lovely roses?"

"Cesare."

"Give me one--give me one." And she put out her hand.

She put it into her button-hole, inexpressibly happy to possess a flower that he had brought to the house and presented to her sister.

"When did you see Cesare?" she asked, taking up her purse, across which _Anna Dias_ was stamped, and her sunshade.

"I haven't seen him. He sent these flowers to my room."

"How kind he is."

"Very kind," repeated her sister, like an echo.

They went into the drawing-room and waited for Cesare. He came presently, drawing on his gloves. He was somewhat annoyed at having to go to the races with his family--he who had hitherto always gone as a bachelor, on a friend's four-in-hand, or alone in his own phæton. His bad humour was only partially concealed.

"Ah, here is the charming Minerva!" he cried, perceiving Laura. "How smart we are! A proper spring toilet, indeed. Good, good! Well, let's be off."

Anna had hoped for a word from him too, but she got none. Cesare had seen her dress of nut-coloured wool, and he deemed it unworthy of remark. For a moment all the beauty of the April day was extinguished, and she descended the stairs with heavy steps. But out of doors the air was full of light and gaiety; the streets were crowded with carriages and with pedestrians; on every balcony there were ladies in light colours, with red parasols; and a million scintillating atoms danced in every ray of sunshine. Anna told herself she must bear in patience the consequences of the error she had made in putting on that ugly brown frock. Laura's face was lovely as a rose under her white hat; and Anna rejoiced in her sister's beauty, and in the admiring glances that everybody gave her.

"It's going to be beastly hot," said Cesare, as they drove into the Toledo, where a crowd had gathered to watch the procession of carriages.

"The Grand Stand will be covered. We'll find a good place," said Anna.

"Oh, I'm to leave you when we get there," he reminded her. He was determined to put an end to this family scene as soon as he could. "I must leave a clear field for Laura's adorers. I give place to them because I am old."

Laura smiled.

"So, Anna, I'll leave you to your maternal duties. I recommend you to keep an especial eye upon Luigi Caracciolo--upon him in particular."

"What do you mean?" Anna asked absently.

"Nothing, dear."

"I thought----" she began, without finishing her sentence.

Bows and smiles and words of greeting were reaching them from every side. They passed or overtook numberless people whom they knew, some in carriages, some on foot. Cesare was inwardly mortified by the conjugal exhibition of himself that he was obliged to make, and looked with secret envy at his bachelor friends.

But his regret was sharpest when a handsome four-in-hand dashed past, with Giulio Carafa on the box and the Contessa d'Alemagna beside him. That dark, vivacious, blue-eyed lady wore a costume of pale yellow silk, and a broad straw hat trimmed with cream-coloured feathers. She carried a bunch of lilac in her hands, lilac that lives but a single day in our ardent climate, and is rich with intoxicating fragrance. All the men on Carafa's coach bowed to Dias, and the Contessa d'Alemagna smiled upon him and waved her flowers; and his heart was bitten by a great desire to be there, with them, instead of here, in this stupid domestic party.

He was silent; and Anna's eyes filled with tears, for she understood what his silence meant. At the sight of her tears his irritation increased.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, looking at her with his dominating coldness.

"Nothing," she said, turning her head away, to hide her emotion.

That question and answer were equivalent to one of the long and stormy discussions that are usual between husbands and wives. Between them such discussions never took place. Their life was regulated according to the compact they had made on that moonlit night at Sorrento; she realised now that what had then seemed to her a way of being saved was only a way of dying more slowly; but he had kept his word, and she must keep hers. He had married her; she must not reproach him. Only sometimes her sorrow appeared too plainly; then he never failed to find a word or a glance to remind her of her promise.

To-day, for the thousandth time, he regretted the sacrifice he had made, and cursed his generosity.

The whole distance from the Toledo to the Campo di Marte was passed in silence. As they approached the Reclusorio, Luigi Caracciolo drove by them with his tandem. He bowed cordially to them. Anna dropped her eyes; Laura smiled upon him.

"What a handsome fellow!" exclaimed Dias, with the sincere admiration of one man of the world for another.

"Very handsome," said Laura, who was accustomed to speak her girlish mind with sufficient freedom.

"He pleases you, eh?" inquired Cesare, with a smile.

"He pleases me," she said, with her habitual freedom and her habitual indifference.

"It's a pity he was never able to take Anna's fancy," Cesare added, with enigmatical irony.

"I hate handsome youths," said Anna, proudly.

"You wouldn't be the impetuous woman that you are, my dear, if you didn't hate everything that other people like. We've got a creature of passion in the family, Laura," he said, with a frank expression of scorn.

"Yes," assented the cruel sister.

Anna smiled faintly in disdain. Again the beauty of the day was extinguished for her; the warm April afternoon was like a dark winter's evening.

The rose that Laura had given her had fallen to pieces, shedding its petals on the carriage floor. Anna would have liked to gather them all up and preserve them. The most she could do, however, was to take a single one that lay in her lap, and put it into the opening of her glove, against the palm of her hand.

At the entrance of the racing-grounds they met the Contessa d'Alemagna again. She smiled graciously upon Anna and Laura. Anna tried to smile in return; Laura bowed coldly.

"Don't you like the Contessa d'Alemagna?" asked Cesare, as he conducted his wife and sister-in-law to their places in the members' stand.

"No," said Laura.

"You're wrong," said he.

"That may be. But she's antipathetic to me."

"I like her," said Anna, feebly.

Cesare found places for them, and gave them each an opera-glass. Then he stood up and said to Anna:

"You will be all right here?"

"Perfectly."

"Nothing I can do for you?"

"Nothing."

"I'll come back for the third race. I'm going now to bet. Good-bye."

And he went off with the light step of a liberated man. Anna watched him as he crossed the turf towards the weighing-stand.

She was surrounded by acquaintances, and they were all talking together. Being a bride, she received a good deal of attention; Dias was popular, and his popularity reflected itself upon her. Besides, people found her interesting, with her black, passionate eyes, the pure oval of her face, and her fresh red lips.

Luigi Caracciolo came up to where the sisters were seated.

"Cesare has deserted you?" he asked, jestingly.

"He's gone to bet. He'll soon come back," said Anna.

"He's betting with the Contessa d'Alemagna," suggested Laura, with one of those perverse smiles which contrasted so oddly with the purity of her face.

"Then he'll not come back so soon," said Luigi, sitting down.

"Have you never seen the races before?" he asked.

"No, I have never seen them," said Anna.

"It's rather a tiresome sight," said he, pulling his blonde moustaches.

"It's interesting to see the people," said Anna.

"It's the crowd that always gives its interest to a scene," said he, with an intonation of profound thought.

Laura was looking through her opera-glass. "There's Cesare," she cried suddenly.

Cesare was walking and talking with the beautiful Contessa d'Alemagna, and two other men, who walked in front of them, occasionally turned and took part in the conversation. As he passed his wife and sister, he looked up and bowed. Anna responded, smiling, but her smile was a forced and weary one.

Luigi Caracciolo, feigning not to have noticed this incident, said to her: "That's a charming dress you're wearing. It's an inspiration."

"Do you like it?" she asked, with a thankful look.

"Yes. I admire these English fashions. I think our women are wrong to go to a horse-race dressed as if for a garden-party. It's not smart."

He took her sunshade and toyed with it, reading the inscription, engraved on its silver handle.

"'_Attendre pour atteindre._'[A] Is that your motto?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Have you never had another?"

"Never."

"It's a wise one," he remarked. "It's a fact that everything comes at last to those who know how to wait."

"Alas! not everything, not everything," she murmured, sadly.

There was a burst of applause from the multitude. The second race was over, and the favourite had won, a Naples-bred horse. People crowded about the bookmakers, to receive the value of their bets.

"Perhaps Cesare has won," said Laura. "He was always talking about _Amarilli_."

"Cesare always wins," said Luigi.

"He is not named Cesare[B] for nothing," said Anna, proudly.

"And like the great Julius all his victories were won after he had turned forty--especially those in Germany."[C]

But Anna did not hear this malicious pleasantry. She was thinking of other things.

By and by her husband came to her.

"Are you enjoying it, Anna?" he asked.

"Yes, I am enjoying it."

"And you, Laura?"

"Oh, immensely," she answered, coldly.

"Would you like to see the weighing ground?"

"Yes," she said, taking her shawl and her sunshade.

"I can't take _you_," said Cesare to his wife, who was gazing imploringly at him. "We should look ridiculous."

But she did not appear resigned.

"We should be ridiculous," he repeated imperiously. "Thank goodness, we're not perpetually on our wedding journey."

They went away, leaving her with a pain in her heart which she felt was killing her. She half closed her eyes, and only one idea was clear in the sorrowful confusion of her mind--that her husband was right. She had broken their agreement; she had promised never to entreat him, never to reproach him. It was weak and wicked of her, she told herself, to have consented to such an agreement--a compact by which her love, her pride, and her dignity were alike bound to suffer. She had made another great mistake when she did that, and this time an irreparable mistake.

"Ah, you are alone?" said Luigi Caracciolo, coming up again.

"Alone."

"Something is troubling you. What is it?"

"I am bored; and a person who is bored bores others."

"Let us bore ourselves together, Signora Dias. That will be diverting. I have always wished to bore myself with you, you know."

She shook her head, to forbid his referring to the past.

"Ah, you won't consent? You're very cruel."

She put her opera-glass to her eyes, and looked off across the course.

"If you're going to treat me as badly as this, you'd better send me away," he said, with some feeling.

"The stand is free to all the world," she answered, tormented by the thought that if her husband should come back, he might imagine that she was glad to talk with Caracciolo.

"You are a Domitian in woman's clothes," he cried. "Ah, you women! When you don't like a man you destroy him straightway."

She did not hear him; or, hearing, she did not understand.

"You are too high up for me," he went on. "To descend to my level would be impossible for you and unworthy of you. It's equally impossible for me to rise to yours."

"You are quite mistaken. I'm anything rather than a superior being. I'm a human earthly woman, like all others--more than others."

"Then why do you suffer?"

"Because love is very bitter."

"What love?"

"All love. It is bitterer than aloes, bitterer than gall, bitter in life and in death."

There was another outburst of applause, and the crowd began to move. The races of the first day were over.

Anna looked for her husband. He appeared presently, with Laura on his arm.

"You leave your wife to the most melancholy solitude," said Caracciolo, laughing.

"I was sure you would keep her company, you're such a true friend to me," laughed Cesare.

Caracciolo gave his arm to Anna.

"In any case, it wasn't to render you a service," said Luigi.

"I know your fidelity," said Dias.

"You are my master."

Neither of the ladies spoke. Anna gave herself up to the happiness of having recovered her husband, of going away with him, of taking him home. He seemed excited and pleased, as if he had enjoyed the events of the afternoon without stopping to analyse their frivolity and emptiness. He had amused himself in his usual way, forgetting for the moment the subtle but constant annoyance of his marriage. He was merry, and he showed his merriment by joking with Caracciolo, with Laura, even with his wife.

Anna was very happy. The long day had tired her. But now she felt the warmth and comfort of his presence, and that compensated her for her hours of abandonment. They had some difficulty finding their carriage, but Cesare was not impatient. Caracciolo, meanwhile, was looking for his own tranquilly, never for a moment neglecting his chivalric duties.

When their carriage was discovered, the two men helped the ladies into it; and Cesare, standing beside it, disposed of their shawls and their opera-glasses with the carefulness of a model husband, at the same time exchanging a passing word or two with Caracciolo.

Suddenly Cesare closed the carriage-door, and said to the coachman--"Home."

"Aren't you coming with us?" Anna asked in a low voice.

"No. There's a place for me on Giulio Carafa's four-in-hand. I shall get to Naples sooner than you will. The four-in-hand can go outside the line."

"Four-in-hands are very amusing," said Caracciolo, shaking hands with the two women.

"Shall we have a late dinner?" asked Anna.

"Don't wait dinner for me. I am going to dine at the Contessa d'Alemagna's, with Giulio Carafa and Marco Paliano."

"Very well," said Anna.

She watched Cesare and Luigi as they moved away, puffing their cigarettes. Then she said to the coachman, "Drive home."

During the long drive the sisters scarcely spoke. They were accustomed to respect each other's hours of silence. A soft breeze was blowing from the north. They were both a little pale. Perhaps it was the spectacle of the return from the Campo di Marte, which made them thoughtful; the many carriages, full of people who bore on their faces the signs of happiness due to a fine day of sunshine, passed in the open air, amid the thousand flattering coquetries of love and fancy; the beautiful women, wrapped in their cloaks; the sort of spiritual intoxication that glowed in the eyes of everybody.

The streets were lined by an immense crowd of shop-keepers and working-people, who made a holiday pleasure of watching the stream of carriages; and another crowd looked down from the balconies of the houses.

Presently Anna leaned forward and took her shawl and wrapped it round her shoulders.

"Are you cold?" asked Laura, helping her.

"Yes."

Laura also put on her shawl; she, too, was cold.

Luigi Caracciolo's tandem passed them. Anna did not see him. Laura bowed.

When they had reached the Piazza San Ferdinando, Anna asked: "Would you like to drive about a little?"

"No, let us go home."

And when they were in the house, "We must go in to dinner," Laura said.

"I'm not going to dine. I have a headache," said Anna.

At last she was alone. In her own room she threw aside her hat and veil, her sunshade, her purse, her pocket-handkerchief; she fell into an arm-chair, and was shaken by a storm of sobs and tears.

From above her little writing-table Cesare's portrait seemed to smile upon the flowers that were placed under it.

She raised her eyes, and looked at his beautiful and noble face, which appeared to glow with love and life. A great impulse of passion rose in her heart; she took the portrait and kissed it, and bathed it in her tears, murmuring, "my love, my love, why do you treat me like this? Ah, I can only love you, love you; and you are killing me."

Hours passed unnoticed by her. Some one came to her door and asked whether she wished for a lamp; she answered, "No."

By-and-bye she saw a white figure standing before her. She recognised Laura. And she saw that Laura was weeping. She had never seen her weep before.

"You are crying. What are you crying for?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Laura, vaguely, with a gesture.

And they wept together.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] "Wait to win." In French in the original.

[B] Cæsar.

[C] Alemagna. A punning reference to the Contessa.

II.

Cesare Dias came home one day towards six o'clock, in great good humour. At dinner he found everything excellent, though it was his habit to find everything bad. He ate with a hearty appetite, and told countless amusing stories, of the sort that he reserved for his agreeable moments. He joked with Laura, and with Anna; he even complimented his wife upon her dress, a new one that she had to-day put on for the first time. He succeeded in communicating his gaiety to the two women. Anna looked at him with meek and tender eyes; and as often as he smiled she smiled too.

Laura, it is true, spoke little, but in her face shone that expression of vivacity, of animation, which had characterised it for some time past. She agreed with everything Cesare said, bowing her head.

After dinner they all passed into Anna's drawing-room. It was her evening at home; and noticing that there were flowers in all the vases--it was in June, just a year after their talk at Sorrento--and seeing the silver samovar on the table, Cesare asked: "Are you expecting people to-night, Anna?"

"A few. Perhaps no one will come."

"Ah, that's why you've got yourself up so smartly."

"Did you fancy it was for you, that she had put on her new frock, Cesare?" Laura asked, jestingly.

"I was presumptuous enough to do so; and all presumptions are delusions. I'll bet that Luigi Caracciolo is coming--the ever faithful one."

"I'm sure I don't know," said Anna, indifferently.

"Oh, you hypocrite, Anna!" laughed Laura.

"Hypocrite, hypocrite!" repeated Cesare, also laughing. "Come, I'll warrant that the obstinate fidelity of Caracciolo has at last made an impression. Admirable! He's been in love with you for a hundred years."

"Oh, Cesare, don't joke about such subjects," Anna begged, in pain.

"You see, Laura, she is troubled."

"She's troubled, it's true," affirmed Laura.

"You're both of you heartless," Anna murmured.

Cesare opened his cigarette case, and playfully offered a cigarette to each of the ladies.

"I don't smoke," said Laura.

"Why don't you learn to?"

"Smoke is bad for the teeth;" and she showed her own, shining like those of Beatrice in the tale by Edgar Poe.

"You're right, fair Minerva. Will you smoke, Anna?"

"I don't smoke, either," she said, with a soft smile.

"You ought to learn. It would be becoming to you. You're dark, you have the Spanish type, and a _papelito_[D] would complete your charm."

"I will learn, Cesare," she assented.

"And what's more, smoke calms the nerves. You can't imagine the soothing effect it has. Nothing is better to relieve our little sorrows."

"Give me a cigarette, then," she said at once.

"Ah, you have little sorrows?"

"Who knows!" she sighed, putting aside her cigarette.

"You have no little sorrows, Laura?" asked Cesare.

"Neither little ones nor big ones."

"Who can boast of having never wept?" said Anna, with a melancholy accent.

"If we become sentimental, I shall take myself off," said Cesare.

"No, no, don't go away," Anna prayed him.

"I would remind you that we've got to pass our whole life-time together," said he, ironically, knocking off the ash of his cigarette.

"All our life-time, and more beyond it," said Anna, pensively.

"And more beyond! It's a grave affair. I will think of it while I am dressing, this evening."

"Where are you going?"

"To take a walk," he answered, rising.

"Why don't you stay here?" she ventured to ask.

"I can't. I'm obliged to go out."

"Come home early, won't you?"

"Early--yes," he consented, after a short hesitation.

"I'll wait for you, Cesare."

"Yes, yes. Good-night."

He went off.

Laura, according to her recent habit, had listened to this dialogue with her eyes half closed, and biting her lips; she said nothing. Whenever her sister and her brother-in-law exchanged a few affectionate words (and, indeed, Cesare did no more than respond to the affection of Anna), she assumed the countenance of a statue, which neither feels nor hears nor sees; or else, she got up and left the room noiselessly. Often Anna surprised on Laura's face a cynical smile that appeared the antithesis of its extreme purity, the irony of an icy virgin who is aware of the falsity and hollowness of love.

This evening, when Cesare had left them, the sisters remained together for a few minutes. But apparently both their minds were absorbed in deep thought; at any rate they could not keep up a conversation. Anna, in her lilac-coloured frock, lay in an easy-chair, leaning her head on her hands, over which her black hair seemed like a warrior's helmet. Laura was pulling and playing with the fringe of her white dress.

"I'm going; good night," she said suddenly.

"Why do you go, Laura?" asked Anna, issuing from her reverie.

"There's no use staying. People will be arriving."

"But stay for that very reason. You will help me to endure their visits."

"Oh, that's a task above my strength," said the blonde and beautiful Minerva. "Then, anyhow, it's you they come to see, my dear."

"You'll be married some day yourself," said Anna, laughing.

She was still in a pleasant mood--a reflection of Cesare's gaiety; and then he had promised to come home early.

"Who knows! Good night," and Laura rose to go away.

"But what are you going to do?"

"Read a little; then sleep."

"What are you reading?"

"'_Le mot de l'énigme_,'[E] by Madame Pauline Craven."

"A mystical romance? Do you want to become a nun?"

"Who knows! Good night."

Anna herself took up a book after Laura's departure. It was _Adolphe_, by Benjamin Constant; she had found it one day on her husband's writing-desk. In its cool yet ardent pages one feels the charm of a truthful story, surging up from the heart in a single, vibrant cry of pain. Anna had read it two or three times; now she began it again, absent-mindedly. But she did not read long. A few callers came; the Marchesa Scibilia, her relative, accompanied by Gaetano Althan, who always liked to go about with old ladies; Commander Gabriele Mari, a man of seventy; and then the Prince of Gioiosa, a handsome, witty, and intelligent Calabrian.

The conversation, of course, was a mixture of frivolity and seriousness, as conversations are apt to be in a small gathering like the present, where nobody cares to appear too much in earnest, and everybody tries to speak in paradoxes.

The Prince di Gioiosa was the last to leave; it was then past eleven.

"No one else will come," she thought.

But she was mistaken. Acquaintances passing in the street, and seeing her windows alight, came up to pay their respects. When the last of these had gone, "It is late; no one else will come," she thought again.

But again she was mistaken. The servant announced Luigi Caracciolo; and the handsome young fellow entered, with that English correctness of bearing which somewhat tempered the vivacity of his blonde youthfulness. He was in evening dress, and wore a spray of lilies of the valley in his button-hole.

Anna gave him her hand amicably. Her rings glittered in the lamplight.

"Starry hand," he said, bowing, and pressing it softly.

"Where do you come from?" she asked, with that polite curiosity which implies no real interest.

"From the opera," he said, seating himself beside her.

"What were they giving?"

"'The Huguenots'--always the same."

"It is always beautiful."

"Do you remember?" he asked with a tender, caressing voice. "They were singing 'The Huguenots' on the evening when I was introduced to you."

"Yes, yes; I remember that evening," she said, with sudden melancholy.

"How horribly I displeased you that night, didn't I? The only thing to approach it was the tremendously delightful impression you made on me."

"What nonsense!" she protested kindly.

"And your first impression of me has never changed--confess it," he said.

"Even if that were true, it wouldn't make you very unhappy."

"What can you know about that? You beautiful women, admired and loved--what do you know?"

"You're right. Indeed, we know nothing."

But he saw that her mind was away in a land of dreams, far from him. He felt all at once the distance that divided them.

"When you come back from your travels let me know, that I may welcome you," he said, with his smooth, caressing voice.

"What travels?"

"Ah! If I knew! If I knew where your thoughts are wandering while I talk to you, I could go with you, I could follow you in your fantasies. Instead, I speak, and you don't listen to me. I say serious things to you in a jesting tone, and you understand neither the seriousness nor the joke. You leave me here alone, whilst you roam--who knows where? And I, a humble mortal, without visions, without imagination, I can only wait for your return, my dear lady."

If, indeed, there was a certain poetic quality in what he said, there was a deeper poetry still in the tenderness and sweetness of his voice. He sat in front of her, gazing into her face, as if he could not tear himself from that contemplation. She sometimes lowered her eyes, sometimes turned them away, sometimes fixed them upon a page of _Adolphe_, which she had kept in her hands. If his gaze embarrassed her, however, his soft voice seemed to calm her nerves. She listened to it, scarcely understanding his words, as one listens to a vague pleasant music.

"Doesn't it bore you to wait?" she asked.

"I am never bored here. When I have this lovely sight before my eyes."

"What sight?" she inquired, ingenuously.

"Your person, my dear lady."

"But you can't always be looking at me," she said, laughing, trying to turn the conversation to a jest.

"That's a fatal misfortune, as they say in novels. I should like to pass my whole life near to you. Instead, I'm obliged to pass it among a lot of people who are utterly indifferent to me. A great misfortune!"

"It's not your fault," she said, with a faint smile.

"It certainly isn't. But that doesn't console me. Shall we try it--passing our lives together? One can overcome misfortunes. Our whole lives--that will mean many years."

"But I am married," she said, feeling that the talk was becoming dangerous.

"Oh, that's nothing," he cried emphatically.

"Caracciolo, I believe you've found the means to see me no more. What do you want from me?"

"Nothing, dear lady, nothing," he answered, with genuine grief in his face and voice.

"Then you ought not to risk destroying one of your friendships. What would Cesare have said if he had heard you for the last half hour?"

"Oh, nothing. He couldn't have heard me, you know, because he's never here."

"Sometimes he is," she said, with sudden emotion.

"Never, never. Don't tell pious fibs."

"He's always here."

"In your heart. I know it. It's an agreeable home for him, the more so because he can find others of the same sort wherever he goes."

"What are you saying?"

"One of my usual vulgarities. I'm speaking ill of your husband."

"Then be quiet."

But to soften the severity of this command, she offered him a box of cigarettes.

"Thanks for your charity," he said.

And he began to smoke, looking at one of her slippers of lilac satin embroidered with silver, which escaped from beneath her train. She sat with her elbow on the table, thinking. It was midnight. In a few minutes Caracciolo would be gone; and Cesare couldn't delay much longer about coming home.

Luigi Caracciolo seemed to divine her thoughts.

"After this cigarette, I will leave you. I'm afraid I've given you no great idea of my wit."

"I detest witty men."

"Small harm! I hope you believe, though, that I have a heart."

"I believe it."

"All the better. One day or another you will remember what I have said to you this evening, and understand it."

"Perhaps," she said, vaguely.

"You had a very happy inspiration, to dress in lilac. It's such a tender colour. That's the tint one sees in the sunsets at Venice. Have you ever been at Venice?"

"Never."

"That's a pity. It's a place full of soft tears. One can make a provision of them there, to last a life-time. Trifling loves become deep at Venice, and deep loves become indestructible. Good-night."

"Good-night."

She gave him her hand, like a white flower issuing from the satin of her sleeve. He touched it lightly with his lips, and went away.

Not for a moment during her conversation with Luigi Caracciolo had her husband been absent from Anna's mind. And all that the young man said, which constantly implied if it did not directly mention love, had but intensified her one eternal thought.

It was now half-past twelve. She rose and rang the bell; and her maid appeared.

They left the drawing-room and went into Anna's bedroom, which was lighted by a big lamp with a shade of pink silk.

Her maid helped her to undress, thinking that she was going to bed; but presently Anna asked for her tea-gown of cream-coloured crape, and put it on, as if she meant to sit up. She had loosened her hair, and it fell down her back in a single rich black tress.

The maid asked if she might go to bed. Anna said, "Yes." Cesare had given orders that no servant should ever sit up for him; he had a curiously wrought little key, a master-key, which he wore on his watch-chain, and which opened every door in his house. Thus he could come in at any hour of the night he liked, without being seen or heard. The maid went softly away, closing the door behind her.

Anna sat down in an easy chair, beside her bed. She still had the volume of _Adolphe_ in her hand. She sat still there, while she heard the servant moving about the apartment, shutting the windows. Then all was silent.

Anna got up, and opened the doors between her room and her husband's. So she would be able to hear him when he returned. He could not delay much longer. He had promised her to come home early; he knew that she would wait for him. And, as she had been doing through the whole evening, but with greater intensity than ever, she longed for the presence of her loved one. Was not every thing empty and colourless when he was away? And this evening he had been so merry and so kind. His promise resounded in her soul like a solemn vow. She thrilled with tremulous emotion. The softness of the spring night entered into her and exhilarated her.

She lay back in her easy-chair, with closed eyes, and dreamed of his coming. She felt an immense need of him, to have him there beside her, to hold his hand in hers, to lean her head upon his shoulder in sweet, deep peace, listening to the beating of his heart, supported by his arms, while his breath fell upon her hair, her eyelids, her lips. A dream of love; vivid and languid, full of delicate ardour and melancholy desire.

She surprised herself murmuring his name. "Cesare, Cesare," she said, trembling with love at the sound of her own voice.

Suddenly it seemed to her that she heard a noise in her husband's room. Then he had come!

Swiftly, like a flying shadow, she crossed the passage, and looked in. Only silence and darkness! She had been mistaken. She leaned on the frame of the door, and remained thus for a long moment.

Slowly she returned to her own room, thinking that "early" must mean for a man of late habits like Cesare two o'clock in the morning. That was it! He would arrive at two.

She took up _Adolphe_, thinking to divert herself with reading, and thus to moderate her impatience. She opened the book towards the middle, where the passionate struggle between Ellenore and Adolphe is shown in all its sorrowful intensity. And from the dry, precise words, the hard, effective style, the brief and austere narrative, which was like the cry of a soul destroyed by scepticism, Anna derived an impression of fright. Ah, in her sincere, youthful faith, what a horror she had of that modern malady which corrupts the mind, depraves the conscience, and kills whatever is most noble in the soul! What could she know, poor, simple, ignorant woman, whose only belief, whose only law, whose only hope was love--what could she know of the spiritual diseases of those who have seen too much, who have loved too much, who have squandered the purest treasures of their feelings? What could she know of the desolating torture of those souls who can no longer believe in anything, not even in themselves, and who have lost their last ideal? She could know nothing; and yet a terror assailed her. Perhaps Cesare, her husband, was like _Adolphe_, who could never more be happy, who could never more give happiness to others. She shuddered, and threw the book aside, in great distress.

She got up mechanically, and took from a table a rosary of sandal wood, which a Missionary Friar had brought from Jerusalem.

She had never been regular in her devotions; her imagination was too fervid. But religious feelings seemed sometimes to sweep in upon her in great waves of divine love. A child of the South, she only prayed when moved by some strong pain, for which she could find no earthly relief. She forgot to pray when she was happy. Now she pressed her rosary to her lips, and began to repeat the long and poetical Litany, which Domenico de Guzman has dedicated to the Virgin. Ingenuously enough, she thought that in this way the time would pass more rapidly, two o'clock would strike, and Cesare would arrive. But she endeavoured in vain to fix her mind upon her orisons; it flew away, before her, to her meeting with her Beloved; and though her lips pronounced the words of the _Ave_ and the _Pater_, their sense escaped her. Once or twice she paused for a few minutes, and then went on, confused, beseeching Heaven's pardon for her slight attention.

When her rosary was finished, it was two precisely. Now Cesare would come.

She could not control her nervousness. She took her lamp and went into her husband's room: she placed the lamp on the writing-desk, and seated herself in one of the leather arm-chairs. She felt easier here; the austerity of the big chamber, with its dark furniture, told her that her husband's soul was above the sterile and frivolous pleasures in which he had already lost the best part of the night.

The air still smelt of cigarette smoke. Here and there a point of metal gleamed in the lamplight. On a table lay a pair of gloves; they had been worn that day, and they retained the form of his hands. She kissed them, and put them into the bosom of her gown.

But where was Cesare?

She began to pace backwards and forwards, the train of her dress following her like a white wave. Why did he not come home? It was late, very late. There were no balls on for that night; no social function could detain him till this hour.

Where was Cesare? Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare, her dear love, where was he? She passed her hands over her burning forehead.

All at once, looking out into the night, she noticed in the distance the windows of Cesare's club, brilliantly lighted. Then a sudden peace came to her. He would be there, playing, talking, enjoying the company of his friends, forgetful of the time. It was an old habit of his, and old habits are so hard to break. She remained at the window of his room, with her eyes fixed upon the windows of his club; the light that shone from them was the pole-star of her heart.

She opened the window and went out upon the balcony.

Presently two men issued from the club-house, stood for a moment chatting together at the entrance, and then moved off towards the Chiaia. Ah, she thought, the company at the Club was beginning to break up; at last Cesare would come. At the end of ten minutes, four men came out together. These also chatted together for a minute, then separated, two going towards the Riviera, two entering the Via Vittoria. By-and-by one man came out alone, and advanced directly towards Dias' house. This, this surely would be he.

The man was looking up, towards the balcony.

"Good-night, Signora Anna," said the voice of Luigi Caracciolo.

"Good-night," she murmured, faint with disappointment.

Caracciolo had stopped, and was leaning on the railing, gazing up at her. Anna drew back out of sight.

"Good-night, Anna," he repeated, very softly.

She did not answer.

Caracciolo went off, slowly, slowly; stopping now and then to look back.

She turned her eyes again upon the windows of the club, but they were quite dark; the lights had been extinguished.

So Caracciolo had been the last to leave; and Cesare was not there!

She felt terribly cold, all at once. Her teeth chattered. She went back into the room, shivering, and had scarcely strength enough to shut the window. She fell upon a chair, exhausted. The clock struck. It was half-past three.

And now a hideous suspicion began to torture her. There were no balls to-night, no receptions, no functions. The club was shut up. The cafés were shut up. All talking, eating, drinking, gambling, were over for the night. The life of the night was spent. Everybody had gone home to bed. Then where was Cesare? Cesare, her husband, was with a woman! And jealousy began to gnaw her heart. With a woman; that was certain. The truth burned her soul. He could be nowhere else than with a woman. The truth rang in her heart like a trumpet-blast. Mechanically she put her fingers to her ears to shut out the words--_with a woman, with a woman_.

But what woman?

She knew nothing of her husband's secrets, nothing of his past or present loves.

She was a mere stranger whom he tolerated, not a friend, not a confidant. She was a troublesome bond upon him, an obstacle to his pleasures, an interference with his habits. No doubt there were older bonds, stronger ties, that kept him from her; or it might be the mere force of a passing fancy. But for what woman, for what woman? In vain she tried to give the woman a name, a living form.

Oh, certainly not a lady, not a woman of honourable rank and reputation; not the Contessa d'Alemagna.

Who then? Who then?

How much time passed, while she sat there, in a convulsion of tears and sobs, prey to all the anguish of jealousy?

The day broke; a greenish, livid light entered the room.

The handle of the door turned. Cesare came in. He was very pale, with dull, weary eyes. He had a cigarette in his mouth; his lips were blue. The collar of his overcoat was turned up; his hands were in his pockets. He looked at his wife indifferently, coldly, as if he did not recognise her.

She rose. Her face was ashen. Her capacity for feeling was exhausted.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

He threw away his cigarette, and took off his hat. How old and used up he looked, with his hair in disorder, his cheeks sunken from lack of sleep.

"I was waiting for you," she said.

"All night?"

"All night."

"You have great patience."

He opened the door.

"Good-bye, Anna."

"Good-bye, Cesare."

And she returned to her own room.

FOOTNOTES:

[D] Spanish in the original.

[E] The key to the riddle.

III.

About the middle of June, in the first summer of his marriage, Cesare Dias brought his wife and his sister-in-law to the Villa Caterina at Sorrento. He would leave them there, while he went to take the baths at Vichy. Afterwards he was going to Saint-Moritz in the Engadine, whither betake themselves such persons as desire to be cold in summer, the same who, desiring to be hot in winter, hibernate at Nice. Anna had secretly wished to accompany her husband upon this journey, longing to be alone with him, far from their usual surroundings; but she was to be left behind.

Ever since that night when she had sat up till dawn waiting for him, tormented, disillusioned, her faith destroyed, her moral strength exhausted, there had been a coldness between the couple. Cesare had lost no time in asserting his independence of her, and had vouchsafed but the vaguest explanations, saying in general terms that a man might pass a night out of his house, chatting with friends or playing cards, for any one of a multitude of reasons. Anna had listened without answering. She dreaded above all things having a quarrel with her husband. She closed her eyes and listened. He flung his explanation at her with an air of contempt. She was silent but not satisfied.

She could never forget the hours of that night, when, for the first time, she had drained her cup of bitterness to its dregs, and looked into the bottom depths of human wickedness. The sweetness of her love had then been poisoned.

As for Cesare, he had been exceedingly annoyed by her waiting for him, which seemed to him an altogether extravagant manifestation of her fondness. It annoyed him to have been surprised in the early morning light looking old and ugly; it annoyed him to have to explain his absence; and it annoyed him finally to think that similar scenes might occur again. Oh, how he loathed these tragic women and their tragedies! After having hated them his whole life long, them and their tears and their vapourings, behold! he had been trapped into marrying one of them--for his sins; and his rancour at the inconceivable folly he had committed vented itself upon Anna. She, sad in the essence of her soul, humble, disheartened, understood her husband's feelings; and by means of her devotion and tenderness sought to procure his pardon for her offence--the offence of having waited for him that night! One day, when Anna had been even more penitent and more affectionate than usual, he had indeed made some show of forgiving her, with the pretentious indulgence of a superior being; she had taken his forgiveness as a slave takes a kind word after a beating, smiling with tears in her eyes, happy that he had not punished her more heavily for her fault.

But the truth is, he was a man and not an angel. He had forgiven her; yet he still wished to punish her. On no consideration would he take her with him to Vichy and Saint-Moritz. He gave her to understand that their wedding-journey was finished; that it would never do to leave her sister Laura alone for two months with no other chaperone than Stella Martini; that it wasn't his wish to play Joseph Prudhomme, and travel in the bosom of his family; in short, he gave her to understand in a thousand ways that he wished to go alone; and she resigned herself to staying behind in preference to forcing her company upon him. She flattered herself, poor thing, that this act of submission, so hard for her to make, would restore her to her lord's good graces. He went away, indeed in great good temper. He seemed rejuvenated. The idea of the absolute liberty he was about to enjoy filled him with enthusiasm. He recommended his ladies (as he jokingly called the sisters) not to be too nun-like, but to go out, to receive, to amuse themselves as they wished. Anna heard this advice, pale with downcast eyes; Laura listened to it with an odd smile on her lips, looking straight into her brother-in-law's face. She too was pale and mute.

After his departure a great, sad silence seemed to invade the villa. Each of the sisters was pensive and reserved; they spoke but little together; they even appeared to avoid each other. For the rest, the charming youthful serenity of the blonde Minerva had vanished; her white brow was clouded with thought. They were in the same house, but for some time they rarely met.