Chapter VII: Part II: I (2)

Anna wrote to Cesare twice a day; she told him everything that happened; she opened to him her every fancy, her every dream; she wrote with the effusiveness of a passionate woman, who, too timid to express herself by spoken words, finds her outlet in letters. Writing, she could tell him how she loved him, that she was his in body and soul. Cesare wrote to her once or twice a week, and not at length; but in each of his notes there would be, if not a word of love, at least some kindly phrase; and upon that Anna would live for three or four days--until his next letter arrived. He was enjoying himself; he was feeling better; he would return soon. Sometimes he even expressed a wish for her presence, that she might share his pleasure in a landscape or laugh with him at some original fellow-traveller. He always sent his remembrances to Laura; and Anna would read them out to her.

"Thank you," was all that Laura responded.

Laura herself wrote a good deal in these days. What was she writing? And to whom? She sat at her little desk, shut up in her room, and covered big sheets of paper with her clear, firm handwriting. If any one entered, she covered what she had written with her blotting-paper, and remained silent, with lowered eyes, toying with her pen. More than once Anna had come in. Thereupon Laura had gathered up her manuscripts, and locked them into a drawer, controlling with an effort the trouble in her face.

"What are you writing?" Anna asked one day, overcoming her timidity, and moved by a strange impulse of curiosity.

"Nothing that would interest you," the other answered.

"How can you say so?" the elder sister protested, with indulgent tenderness. "Whatever pleases you or moves you must interest me."

"Nothing pleases me and nothing moves me," Laura said, looking down.

"Not even what you are writing?"

"Not even what I am writing."

"How reserved you are! How close you keep your secrets! But why should you have any?" Anna insisted affectionately.

"Yes," said Laura, vaguely. She got up and left the room, carrying her key with her.

Anna never again referred to what her sister was writing. It might be letters, it might be a journal.

In July, Sorrento filled up with tourists and holiday folk; and the other villas were occupied by their owners. The sisters were invited about a good deal, and lured into the thousand summer gaieties of the town.

One of the earliest arrivals was Luigi Caracciolo. He came to Sorrento every season, but usually not till the middle of August, and then to spend no more than a fortnight. He had rather a disdain for Sorrento, he who had travelled over the whole of Europe. This year he came in the first week of July; and he was determined to stay until Anna Dias left. He was genuinely in love with her; in his own way, of course. The mystery that hung over her past, and her love for Cesare Dias, which Luigi knew to be unrequited, made her all the dearer to him. He was in love, as men are in love who have loved many times before. Sometimes he lost his head a little in her presence, but never more than a little. He retained his mastery of himself sufficiently to pursue his own well-proved methods of love-making. He covered his real passion with a semblance of levity which served admirably to compel Anna to tolerate it.

She never allowed him--especially at Sorrento, where she was alone and where she was very sad--to speak of love; but she could not forbid him to call occasionally at the Villa Caterina, nor could she help meeting him here and there in the town. And Cesare, from Saint-Moritz, kept writing to her and Laura to amuse themselves, to go out, saying that he hated women who lived like recluses. And sometimes he would add a joking message for Caracciolo, calling him Anna's faithful cavalier; but she, through delicacy, had not delivered them.

Luigi did not pay too open a court to her, did not affect too great an intimacy; but he was never far from her. For a whole evening he would hover near her at a party, waiting for the moment when he might seat himself beside her; he would leave when she left, and on the pretext of taking a little walk in the moonlight, would accompany the two ladies to the door of their house. He was persevering, with a gentle, continuous, untiring perseverance that nothing could overcome, neither Anna's silence, nor her coldness, nor her melancholy. She often spoke to him of Cesare, and with so much feeling in her voice that he turned pale, wounded in his pride, disappointed in his desire, yet not despairing, for it is always a hopeful sign when a woman loves, even though she loves another. Then the only difficulty (though an immense one) is to change the face of the man she loves to your own, by a sort of sentimental sleight of hand.

For various reasons, he was extremely cautious. He was not one of those who enjoy advertising their desires and their discomfitures on the walls of the town. Then, he did not wish to alarm Anna, and cause her to close her door to him. And besides, he was afraid of the silent watchfulness of Laura. The beautiful Minerva and the handsome young man had never understood each other; they were given to exchanging somewhat sharp words at their encounters, a remarkable proceeding on the part of Laura, who usually talked little, and then only in brief and colourless sentences. Her contempt for him was undisguised. It appeared in her manner of looking him over when he wore a new suit of clothes, in her manner of beginning and ending her remarks to him with the phrase, "A handsome young fellow like you." That was rather bold, for a girl, but Laura was over twenty, and both the sisters passed for being nice, but rather original, nice but original, as their mother and father had been before them. Luigi Caracciolo himself thought them odd, but the oddity of Anna was adorable, that of Laura made him uneasy and distrustful. He was afraid that on one day or another, she might denounce him to Cesare, and betray his love for the other's wife. She had such a sarcastic smile sometimes on her lips! And her laughter had such a scornful ring! He imagined the most fantastic things in respect of her, and feared her mightily.

"How strange your sister is," he said once to Anna, finding her alone.

"She's good, though," said Anna, thoughtfully.

"Does she seem so to you?"

"Yes."

"You little know. You're very ingenuous. She's probably a monster of perfidy," he said softly.

"Why do you say that to me, Caracciolo? Don't you know that I dislike such jokes?"

"If I offend you, I'll hold my tongue. I keep my opinion, though. Some day you'll agree with me."

"Be quiet, Caracciolo. You distress me."

"It's much better to have no illusions; then we can't lose them, dear lady."

"It is better to lose illusions, than never to have had them."

"What a deep heart is yours! How I should like to drown in it! Let me drown myself in your heart, Anna."

"Don't call me by my name," she said, as if she had heard only his last word.

"I will obey," he answered meekly.

"You, too, are good," she murmured, absently.

"I am as bad as can be, Signora," he rejoined, piqued.

She shook her head good-naturedly, with the smile of one who would not believe in human wickedness, who would keep her faith intact, in spite of past delusions. And the more Luigi Caracciolo posed as a depraved character, the more she showed her belief that at the bottom every human soul is good.

"Everybody is good, according to you," he said. "Then I suppose your husband, Cesare, is good too?"

"Too? He is the best of all. He is absolutely good," she cried, her voice softening as it always did when she spoke of Cesare.

"He who leaves you here alone after a few months of marriage?"

"But I'm not alone," she retorted, simply.

"You're not alone--you're in bad company," he said, nervously.

"Do you think so? I wasn't aware of it."

"You couldn't tell me more politely that I'm a nonentity. But he, he who is away, and who no doubt invents a thousands pretence to explain his absence to you--can you really say that he is good."

"Cesare invents no pretences for me," she replied, turning pale.

"Who says so? He? Do you believe him?"

"He says nothing. I have faith in him," she answered, overwhelmed to hear her own daily fears thus uttered for her.

Caracciolo looked at her anxiously. Merely to hear her pronounce her husband's name proved that she adored him. Luigi was too expert a student of women not to interpret rightly her pallor, her emotion, her distress. He did not know, but he could easily guess that Anna wrote to Cesare every day, and that he responded rarely and briefly. He understood how heavy her long hours of solitude must be, amid the blue and green of the Sorrento landscape, passed in constant longing for her husband's presence. He understood perfectly that she was consumed by secret jealousy, and that he tortured her cruelly when by a word, or an insinuation he inspired her with new suspicions. He could read her heart like an open book; but he loved her all the better for the intense passion that breathed from its pages. He did not despair. Sooner or later, he was convinced, he would succeed in overcoming the obstacle in his way. He adopted the ancient method of assailing the character of the absent man.

When he would mention some old flame of Cesare's, or some affair that still continued, and which his marriage could not break off, or when he would speak of Cesare's desertion of his young wife, he saw Anna's face change; he knew the anguish that he woke in her heart, and he suffered wretchedly to realise that it was for the love of another man. His weapon was a double-edged sword, that wounded her and wounded him. But what of that? He continued to wield it, believing that thus little by little he could deface the image of Cesare Dias that Anna consecrated with her adoration.

Anna was always ready to talk of her husband, and that gave him his opportunity for putting in his innuendoes. At the same time it caused him much bitterness of spirit, and sometimes he would say, "We are three. How do you do, Cesare?" bowing to an imaginary presence.

Anna's eyes filled with tears at such moments.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he cried. "But when you introduce his name into our conversation, you cause me such agony that I feel I am winning my place in heaven. Go on: I am already tied to the rack; force your knife into my heart, gentle torturess."

And she, at first timidly, but then with the impetuousness of an open and generous nature, would continue to talk of Cesare. Where was he, what was he doing, when would he return? she would ask; and he by-and-by would interrupt her speculations to suggest that Cesare was probably just now on the Righi, with the Comtesse de Béhague, one of his old French loves, whom he met every year in Switzerland; and that he would very likely not return to Sorrento at all, nor even to Naples before the end of October.

"I don't believe it, I don't believe it," she protested.

"You don't believe it? But it's his usual habit. Why should he alter it this year?"

"He has me to think of now."

"Ah, dear Anna, dear Anna, he thinks of you so little!"

"Don't call me by my name," she said, making a gesture to forbid him.

"If Cesare heard me he wouldn't like it--eh?"

"I think so."

"You hope so, dear lady, which is a very different thing. But he's not jealous."

"No; he's not jealous," she repeated, softly, lost in sorrowful meditations. "But what man is?"

"He's a man who has never thought of anything but his own pleasure."

"Sad, sad," she murmured very low.

Yet, though she thoroughly well understood that a better knowledge of her husband's past life could only bring her greater pain, she began to question Luigi Caracciolo about Cesare's adventures. Ah, how ashamed she was to do so! It seemed like violating a confidence; like desecrating an idol that she had erected on the altar of her heart. It seemed like breaking the most sacred condition of love, which is secrecy, to speak thus of her love to a man who loved her. Yet the temptation was too strong for her. And cautiously, by hints, she endeavoured to draw from Caracciolo some fact, some episode, a detail, a name, a date; she would try to ask indifferently, feigning a slight interest, attempting without success to play the woman of wit--she, poor thing, who was only a woman of heart.

Caracciolo understood at once, and for form's sake assumed a certain reluctance. Then, as if won by her wishes, he would speak; he would give her a fact, an episode, a date, a name, commenting upon it in such wise as, without directly speaking ill of Cesare, to underline his hardness of heart and his incapacity for real passion. It was sad wisdom that Anna hereby gained. Her husband's soul was cold and arid; he had always been the same; nothing had ever changed him. Sometimes, sick and tired, she would pray Caracciolo by a gesture to stop his talk; she would remain thoughtful and silent, feeling that she had poured a corrosive acid into her own wounds. Sometimes Laura would be present at these conversations, beautiful, in white garments, with soft, lovely eyes. She listened to Caracciolo with close attention, whilst an inscrutable smile played on her virginal lips. He, in deference to the young girl's presence, would, from time to time, drop the subject; then Laura would look at him with an expression of ardent curiosity that surprised him, a look that seemed to ask a hundred questions. His narrative of the life of Cesare Dias succeeded in spoiling Anna's holiday, but did not advance his courtship by an inch.

He has great patience, and unlimited faith in his method. He knew that a strong passion or a strong desire can overcome in time the most insurmountable obstacles. Yet he had moments of terrible discouragement. How she loved him, Cesare Dias, this beautiful woman! It was a love all the more sad to contemplate, because of the discrepancies of age and character between husband and wife. Here was a fresh young girl uncomplainingly supporting the neglect of a worn-out man of forty.

One day, unexpectedly, Cesare returned. From his wife's pallor, from her trembling, he understood how much he had been loved during his absence. He was very kind to her, very gallant, very tender. He embraced her and kissed her many times, effusively, and told her that she was far lovelier than the ladies of France and Switzerland. He was in the best of good humours; and she, laughing with tears in her eyes, and holding his hand as she stood beside him, realised anew how single and absolute was her love for him.

Two or three times Cesare asked, "And Laura?"

"She's very well. She'll be coming soon."

"You haven't found her a husband?"

"She doesn't want one."

"That's what all girls say."

"Laura is obstinate. She really doesn't want one. People even think she would like to become a nun."

"Nonsense."

"The strange thing is that once when I asked her if it was true, she answered no."

"She's an odd girl," said Cesare, a little pensively.

"I don't understand her."

"Ah, for that matter, you understand very little in general," said her husband, caressing her hair to temper his impertinence.

"Oh, you're right; very little," she answered, with a happy smile. "I'm an imbecile."

But Laura did not come, though she had been called. Anna sent her maid. "She would come at once; she was dressing," was the reply. They waited for her a few minutes longer; and when she appeared in the doorway, dazzling in white, with her golden hair in a rich coil on the top of her head, Anna cried, "Laura, Cesare has come."

Cesare rose and advanced to meet his sister-in-law. She gave him her hand, and he kissed it. But he saw that she was offering her face; then he embraced her, kissing her cheek, which was like the petal of a camellia. This was all over in an instant, but it seemed a long instant to Anna; and she had an instinctive feeling of repulsion when Laura, blushing a little, came up and kissed her. It was an instinctive caress on the part of Laura, and an instinctive movement of repulsion on that of Anna. Not that she had the faintest evil thought or suspicion; it was a vague distress, a subtle pain, nothing else.

From that day life in the quiet Villa Caterina became sensibly gayer; there were visits and receptions, dances, and yachting parties. It was an extremely lively season at Sorrento. There were a good many foreigners in the town; amongst them two or three wild American girls, who swam, rowed, played croquet and lawn-tennis, were very charming, and had handsome dowries. It became the fashion for the men to make love to these young persons, a thing that was sufficiently unusual in a society where flirtation with unmarried women is supposed to be forbidden. Cesare told Anna that it was a propitious moment for launching Laura; she too had a handsome dowry, and was very lovely, though she lacked perhaps the vivacity of the wild Americans; and with the energy of a youth, he took his wife and sister everywhere.

Luigi Caracciolo continued to make his court to Anna. With delicate cynicism, Cesare, on his return, had inquired whether Luigi had faithfully discharged his duty as her cavalier, but Anna had turned such talk aside, for it hurt her. Laura, however, declared that Luigi had accomplished miracles of devotion, and shown himself a model of constancy.

"And the lady, what of her?" asked Cesare, pulling his handsome black moustaches.

"Heartless," Laura answered, smiling at Anna, for whom this joking was a martyrdom.

"Noble but heartless lady!" repeated Cesare.

"Would you have wished me to be otherwise?" demanded Anna, quickly, looking into her husband's eyes.

"No; I should not have wished it," was his prompt rejoinder.

In spite of this downright pronouncement, in which her husband, for all his cynicism, asserted his invincible right to her fidelity--in spite of the fact that Cesare appeared to watch the comings and goings of Caracciolo--he openly jested with his wife's follower about his courtship.

"Well, how is it getting on, Luigi?" he asked one day.

"Badly, Cesare. It couldn't be worse," responded Luigi, with a melancholy accent that was only half a feint.

"And yet I left the field free to you."

"Yes; you are as generous as the emperors your namesakes; but when you have captured a province you know how to keep it, whether you are far or near."

"Men of my age always do, Luigi."

"Ah, you have a different tradition."

"What tradition?"

"You don't love."

"What! Do you mean to say that you young fellows love?" asked Cesare, lifting his eyebrows.

"Sometimes, you know, we commit that folly."

"It's a mistaken method--a grave blunder. I hope that you've not fallen into it."

"I don't know," said Luigi, looking mysterious. "Besides, your question strikes me as prompted by jealousy. I'll say no more. It might end in bloodshed."

"I don't think so," laughed Cesare.

"But you'll drive me to despair, Dias. Don't you see that your confidence tortures me. For heaven's sake, do me the favour of being jealous."

"Anything to oblige you, my dear fellow, except that. I've never been jealous of a woman in my life."

"And why not?"

"Because----. One day or another I'll tell you." And putting his arm through Luigi's he led him into the drawing-room of the Hotel Vittoria.

Such talks were frequent between them; on Cesare's side calm and ironical, on Luigi's sometimes a little bitter. On their family outings, Cesare always gave his arm to Laura, for he held it ridiculous for a husband to pair off with his wife; and Caracciolo would devote himself to Anna. Cesare would make him a sign of intelligence, laughing at his assiduity.

"Rigidly obeying orders, eh?" asked the sarcastic husband.

"Anyhow, it's she who's given me my orders," answered the other, sadly.

"But really, Anna, you're putting to death the handsomest lad in Christendom!" exclaimed Cesare.

"The world is the richer for those who die of love," she returned.

"Sentimental aphorism," said Cesare, with a cutting ironical smile.

And he went away to dance with Laura. Between Anna and Luigi there was a long silence. It was impossible for her to listen to these pleasantries without suffering. The idea that her husband could speak thus lightly of another man's love for her, the idea that he could treat as a worldly frivolity the daily siege that Caracciolo was laying to her heart, martyrised her. She was nothing to him, since he could allow another man to court her. He never showed a sign of jealousy, and jealousy pleases women even when they know it is not sincere. She was angry with Cesare as much as with Luigi.

"You jest too much about your feelings for any woman to take them seriously," she said to the latter, one evening, when they were listening to a concert of mandolines and guitars.

"You're right," he answered, turning pale. "But once when I never jested, I had equally bad luck. You refused to marry me."

He spoke sadly. That she had refused to marry him still further embittered for him her present indifference. How could a woman have refused a rich and handsome youth, for a man who had passed forty, and was effete in mind and body? How had Cesare Dias so completely taken possession of this woman's heart? The passion of Anna for Cesare, and that of Caracciolo for Anna, were much talked of in Sorrento society, and the general opinion was that Dias must be a tremendous wizard, that he possessed to a supreme degree the art of attracting men and winning women, and that everybody was right to love and worship him. As for Caracciolo, his was the story of a failure.

Caracciolo himself, moved by I know not what instinct of loyalty, of vanity, or of subtle calculation, accepted and even exaggerated his role of an unsuccessful lover. Wherever he went, at the theatre, at parties, he showed plainly that he was waiting for Anna, and was nervous and restless until she came. His face changed when she entered, bowed to him, gave him her hand; and when she left he followed immediately. Perhaps he was glad that all this should be noticed. He knew he could never move her by appearing cold and sceptical; that was Cesare's pose, and in it Luigi could not hope to rival him. Perhaps her sympathies would be stirred if she saw him ardent and sorrowful.

In the autumn he perceived that Anna was troubled by some new grief. Her joy at the return of Cesare had given place to a strange agitation. She was pale and silent, with dark circles under her eyes. And he realised that whatever faint liking she had had for himself had been blotted out by a sorrow whose causes were unknown to him.

One day he said to her, "Something is troubling you?"

"Yes," she answered frankly.

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"No; I don't wish to," she said, with the same frankness.

"Am I unworthy of your confidence?"

"I can't tell it to you, I can't. It's too horrible," she murmured, with so heart-broken an inflection that he was silent, fearing lest others should witness her emotion.

He returned to the subject later on, but without result. Anna appeared horror-struck by her own thoughts and feelings. Luigi had numberless suspicions. Had Anna secretly come to love him? Or, had she fallen in love with some one else, some one unknown to him? But he soon saw that neither of these suppositions were tenable. He saw that she had not for a moment ceased to love Cesare Dias, and that her grief, whatever it was, sprang as usual from her love for him.

For the first week after his return her husband had been kind and tender to her; then, little by little, he had resumed his old indifference. He constantly neglected her. He went out perpetually with Laura, on the pretext that she was too old now to be accompanied only by her governess, and that it was his duty to find a husband for her. Sometimes Anna went with them, to enjoy her husband's presence.

Often he and Laura would joke together about this question of her marriage.

"How many suitors have you?" asked Cesare, laughing.

"Four who have declared themselves; three or four others who are a little uncertain."

Anna felt herself excluded from their intimacy, and sought in vain to enter it. It made her exceedingly unhappy.

She was jealous of her sister, and she hated herself for her jealousy.

"I am vile and perfidious since I suspect others of vileness and perfidy," she told herself to.

Was it possible that Cesare could be guilty of such a dreadful sin, that he could be making love to Laura?

"What's the matter with you? What are you thinking about?" he asked his wife.

"Nothing, nothing."

"What's the matter?" he insisted.

"Don't ask me, don't ask me," she exclaimed, putting her hand over his mouth.

But one evening, when they were alone, and he again questioned her, she answered, "It's because I love you so, Cesare, I love you so."

"I know it," he said, with a light smile. "But it isn't only that, dear Anna."

And he playfully ruffled up her black hair.

"You're right. It isn't only that. I'm jealous of you, Cesare."

"And of what woman?" he asked, suddenly becoming cold and imperious.

"Of all women. If you so much as touch a woman's hand, I am in despair."

"Of women in general?"

"Of women in general."

"Of no one in particular?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Of no one in particular."

"It's fancy, superstition," he said, pulling his moustache.

"It's love, love," she cried. "Ah, if you should love another, I would kill myself."

"I don't think you'll die a violent death," said he, laughing.

"Remember--darling--I would kill myself."

"You'll live to be eighty, and die in your bed," he said, still laughing.

For a few days she was reassured. But on the first occasion, when her husband and Laura again went out together, her jealousy returned, and she suffered atrociously. Her conduct became odd and extravagant. Sometimes she treated Laura with the greatest kindness; sometimes she was rude to her, and would leave her brusquely, to go and shut herself up in her own room.

Laura asked no questions.

"When are we going to leave Sorrento?" Anna asked. But her husband did not answer, appearing to wish to prolong their sojourn there.

"Let us go away, I beg you, Cesare."

"So soon? Naples is empty at this season. There's nothing to do there. We'd have the air of provincials."

"That doesn't matter. Let us go away, Cesare."

"You are bored, here in the loveliest spot in the world?"

"Sorrento is lovely, but I want to go away."

"As you wish," he said, suddenly consenting. "Give orders to the servants to make ready."

And, to avenge himself, he neglected her utterly during the last two or three days, going off constantly with Laura.

On the eve of their departure Luigi Caracciolo called, to make his adieux. He found Anna alone.

"Good evening, Signora Dias," he said, and the commonplace words had an inflection of melancholy.

"Good evening. You've not gone to the farewell dance at the Vittoria?"

"I have no farewells to give except to you."

"Farewell, then," she said, seating herself near him.

"Farewell," he murmured, smiling, and looking into her eyes. "But we shall meet again within a fortnight."

"I don't know whether I shall be receiving so soon. I don't know whether I shall receive at all."

"You're going to shut your doors to me?" he asked, turning pale.

"Not to you only, to everybody. I'm not made for society. I'm out of place in it, out of tune with it. Solitude suits me better."

"You will die of loneliness. Seeing a few devoted friends will do you good."

"My troubles are too deep."

"Don't you think you're a little selfish? If you shut your doors, others will suffer, and you don't care. You are willing to deprive us of the great pleasure of seeing you. But don't you know that the pain we give reacts upon ourselves? Don't be selfish."

"It's true. I'm perhaps selfish. But who of us is perfect? The most innocent, the purest people in the world, can make others unhappy, without wishing to."

He studied her, feeling that he was near to the secret of her sorrow.

"Sorrento has bored you?" he asked.

"Not exactly bored me. I have been unhappy here."

"More unhappy than at Naples?"

"More than at Naples."

"And why?"

"I don't know. I carry my unhappiness with me."

"Did you imagine that Sorrento would make over the man you love?"

"I hoped----"

"Nothing can make that man over. He's not bad perhaps; but he's what he is."

"It's true."

"Why, then, do you seek the impossible?" he went on.

"And you--aren't you seeking the impossible?" she retorted.

"Yes. But I stop at wishing for it. You see how reasonable I am. You are sad, very sad, Anna, and not for my sake, for another's; yet I should be so happy if I could help you or comfort you in any way."

"Thank you, thank you," she replied, moved.

"I believe that dark days are waiting for you at Naples. I don't wish to prophesy evil, Anna, but that is my belief."

"I'm sure of it," said she, and a sudden desperation showed itself in her face.

"Well, will you treat me as a friend, and remember me in your moments of pain?"

"Yes, I will remember you."

"Will you call me to you?"

"I will call upon you as upon a brother."

"Listen, Anna. Officially I live with my mother in our old family palace. But my real home is the Rey Villa in the Chiatamone. I promise you, Anna, that I am speaking to you now, as I would speak to my dearest sister. Remember this, that, beginning a fortnight hence, I will wait there every day till four o'clock in the afternoon, to hear from you. I shall be quite alone in the house, Anna. You can come without fear, if you need me. Or you can send for me. My dearest hope will be in some way to serve you. I will obey you like a slave. Anna, Anna, when your hour of trouble arrives, remember that I am waiting for you. When you have need of a friend's help, remember that I am waiting."

"But why do you give me your life like this?"

"Because it is good to give it thus. You, if you loved, would you not do the same?"

"I would do the same. I would give my life."

"You see! But forget that word love; it escaped me involuntarily. It is not the man who loves you, it is the devoted friend, it is the brother, whom you are to remember. My every day will be at your disposal. I swear that no unhallowed thought shall move me."

"I believe you," she said.

She gave him her hand. He kissed it.

IV.

Anna was as good as her word, and on her return to Naples shut herself up in solitude and silence, receiving no one, visiting no one, spending much of her time in her own room, going in the morning for long walks in the hope of tiring herself out, speaking but little, and living in a sort of moral somnolence that seemed to dull her sorrows. Her husband and sister continued to enjoy their liberty, as they had enjoyed it at Sorrento. She left them to themselves. She was alternately consumed by suspicions and remorseful for them. In vain she sought comfort from religion, her piety could not bear the contact of her earthly passion, and was destroyed by it. She had gone to her confessor, meaning to tell him everything, but when she found herself kneeling before the iron grating, her courage failed her; she dared not accuse her husband and her sister to a stranger. So she spoke confusedly and vaguely, and the good priest could give her only vague consolation.

She abandoned herself to a complete moral prostration. She passed long hours motionless in her easy-chair, or on her bed, in a sort of stupor and often was absent from table, on one pretext or another.

"The Signora came home an hour ago, and is lying down," said Cesare's man-servant.

"Very good. Don't disturb her," returned his master, with an air of relief.

"The Signora has a headache, and will not come to luncheon," said Anna's maid to Laura.

"Very good. Stay within call, if she should wish for anything," responded Laura, serene and imperturbable.

And Cesare and Laura merrily pursued their intimacy, never bestowing a thought upon her whom they thereby wounded in every fibre of her body, and in the essence of her soul. The anguish of jealousy is like the anguish of death, and Anna suffered it to the ultimate pang, at the same time despising herself for it, telling herself that she was the most unjust of women. Her sister was purity itself; her husband was incapable of evil; they were superior beings, worthy of adoration; and she was daily thinking of them as criminals, and covering them with mire. Often and often, in the rare moments when her husband treated her affectionately, she longed to open her heart and tell him everything. But his manner intimidated her, and she dared not. She wondered whether she might not be mad, and whether her jealousy was not the figment of an infirm mind. She had hoped to find peace in flying from Sorrento; now her hope was undeceived; and Anna understood that her pain came from within, not from without. To see her sister and her husband together, seated side by side, walking arm in arm, pressing each other's hands, looking and smiling at each other, was more than she could bear; she fled their presence; she left the house for long wanderings in the streets, or shut herself up in her own room, knowing but too well that they would not notice her absence. Indeed, it would be like a burden taken from their shoulders, for she was a burden to them, with her pallor and her speechlessness.

"They are gay, and I bore them," she told herself.

On several occasions, Cesare twitted her on the subject of her continual melancholy, demanding its cause; but Anna, smarting under his sarcasms, could not answer him. One day, in great irritation, he declared that she had no right to go about posing as a victim, for she wasn't a victim, and her sentimental vapourings bored him immensely.

"Ah, I bore you; I bore you," cried Anna, shaking with suppressed sobs.

"Yes, unspeakably. And I hope that some day or another you'll stop boring me, do you hear?"

"I had better die. That would be best," she sighed.

"But can't you live and be less tiresome? Is it a task, a mission, that you have undertaken, to bore people?"

"I had better die, better die," she sobbed.

He went off abruptly, cursing his lot, cursing above all the monstrous error he had made in marrying this foolish creature. And she, who had wished to ask his pardon, found herself alone. Later in the same day she noticed that Laura treated her with a certain contempt, shrugging her shoulders at the sight of her eyes red from weeping.

Anna determined that she would try to take on at least the external appearances of contentment. The beautiful Neapolitan winter was beginning. She had eight or ten new frocks made, and resolved to become frivolous and vain. Whenever she went out she invariably met Luigi Caracciolo; it was as if she had forewarned him of her itinerary. He had divined it, with that fine intuition which lovers have. They never stopped to speak, however; they simply bowed and passed on. But in his way of looking at her she could read the words of their understanding--"Remember, every day, till four o'clock."

She threw herself into the excitements of society, going much to the theatre and paying many calls. Cesare encouraged this new departure.

The people amongst whom she moved agreed that she was very attractive, but whispered that one day or another she would do something wild.

"What?"

"Oh, something altogether extravagant."

One evening towards the end of January Anna was going to the San Carlo; it was a first night. At dinner she asked Laura if she would care to accompany her.

"No," answered Laura, absently.

"Why not?"

"I've got to get up early to-morrow morning, to go to Confession."

"Ah, very well. And you--will you come, Cesare?"

"Yes," he said, hesitating a little.

"Cousin Scibilia is coming too," Anna added.

"Then, if you will permit me, I'll not come till the second act." And he smiled amiably.

"Have you something to do?"

"Yes; but we'll come home together."

Anna turned red and white. There was something half apologetic in her husband's tone, as if he had a guilty conscience in regard to her. But what did that matter? The prospect of coming home together, alone in a closed carriage, delighted her.

She went to dress for the theatre. She put on for the first time a gown of blue brocade, with a long train, bold in colour, but admirably setting off the rich ivory of Anna's complexion. In her black hair she fixed three diamond stars. She wore no bracelets, but round her throat a single string of pearls. When she was dressed, she sent for her husband.

"You're looking most beautiful," he said.

He took her hands and kissed them; then he kissed her fair round arms; and then he kissed her lips. She thrilled with joy and bowed her head.

"We'll meet at the theatre," he said, "and come home together."

She called for the Marchesa Scibilia, who now lived in the girls' old house in the Via Gerolomini. And they drove on towards the theatre. But when they reached the Toledo they were met by a number of carriages returning. The explanation of this the two ladies learned under the portico of the San Carlo. Over the white play-bill a notice was posted announcing the sudden indisposition of the prima-donna, and informing the public that there would accordingly be no performance that evening. Anna had a lively movement of disappointment, jumping out of her _coupé_ to read the notice for herself.

Luigi Caracciolo was waiting in the shadow of a pillar, sure that she would come.

"Marchesa, you have a very ferocious cousin," he said, stepping forward to kiss the old lady's hand, and laughing at Anna's manifest anger. Then he bowed to her, and in his eyes there was the eternal message, "Remember, I wait for you every day."

She shook her head in the darkness. She was bitterly disappointed. Her evening was lost--the evening during which she had counted upon being alone with Cesare in their box, alone with him in the carriage, alone with him at home. And her beautiful blue gown; she had put it on to no purpose.

"What shall we do?" she asked her cousin.

"I'm going home. I don't care to go anywhere else. And you?"

"I'm going home, too."

She half hoped that she might still find Cesare at the house, and so have at least a half hour with him before he went out. He was very slow about dressing; he never hurried, even when he had an urgent appointment. Perhaps she would find him in his room, tying his white tie, putting a flower in his button-hole. She deposited the Marchesa Scibilia at the palace in the Via Gerolomini, and bade her coachman hurry home.

"Has the Signore gone out?" she asked the porter.

No, he had not gone out. The porter was about to pull his bell-cord, to ring for a footman, but Anna instinctively stopped him. She wished to surprise her husband. She put her finger to her lips, smiling, as she met one of the maids, and crossed the house noiselessly, arriving thus at the door of Cesare's room, the door that gave upon the vestibule, not the one which communicated with the passage between his room and Anna's.

The door was not locked. She opened it softly. She would surprise her husband so merrily. But, having opened the door, she found herself still in darkness, for Cesare had lowered the two _portières_ of heavy olive velvet.

A sudden interior force prevented Anna's lifting the curtains and showing herself. She remained there behind them, perfectly concealed, and able to see and hear everything that went on in the room, through an aperture.

Cesare was in his dress-suit, with an immaculate white waistcoat, a watch-chain that went from his waistcoat-pocket to the pocket of his trousers, with a beautiful white gardenia in his button-hole, his handsome black moustaches freshly curled, and his whole air one of profound satisfaction. He was seated in a big leather arm-chair, his fine head resting on its brown cushions, against which the pallor of his face stood out charmingly.

He was not alone.

Laura, dressed in that soft white wool which seemed especially woven for her supple and flowing figure, with a bouquet of white roses in the cincture that passed twice loosely round her waist, with her blonde hair artistically held in place by small combs of tortoise-shell, and forming a sort of aureole about her brow and temples, the glory of her womanly beauty--Laura was in Cesare's room.

She was not seated on one of his olive velvet sofas, nor on one of his stools of carved wood, nor in one of his leather easy-chairs. She was seated on the arm of the chair in which he himself reclined; she was seated side wise, swinging one of her little feet, in a black slipper richly embroidered with pearls, and an open-work black silk stocking.

One of her arms was extended across the cushion above Cesare's head; and, being higher up than he, she had to bend down, to speak into his face. She was smiling, a strange, deep smile, such as had never been seen before upon the pure red curve of her lips.

Cesare, with his face turned up, was looking at her; and every now and then he took her hand and kissed it, a kiss that lingered, lingered while she changed colour.

He kissed her hand, and she was silent, and he was silent; but it was not a sad silence, not a thoughtful silence. It was a silence in which they seemed to find an unutterable pleasure. They found an unutterable pleasure in their silence, their solitude, their freedom, their intimate companionship, in the kiss he had just given her, and which was the forerunner of many others.

Anna had arrived behind the curtain at the very moment when Cesare was kissing Laura's hand. She saw them gazing into each other's eyes, speechless with their emotion. Anna could hear nothing but the tumultuous beating of her own heart, a beating that leapt up to her throat, making it too throb tumultuously.

The fine white hand of Laura remained in Cesare's, softly surrendered to him; then, as if the mere contact were not enough, his and her fingers closely interlaced themselves. The girl, who had not removed her eyes from his, smiled languorously, as if all her soul were in her hand, joined now for ever to the hand of Cesare; a smile that confessed herself conquered, yet proclaimed herself triumphant.

They did not speak. But their story spoke for itself.

Anna saw how close they were to each other, saw how their hands were joined, saw the glances of passionate tenderness that they exchanged. Clearly, in every detail, she witnessed this silent scene of love. Her heart, her temples, her pulses, pounded frightfully; her nerves palpitated; and she said to herself:

"Oh, I am dreaming, I am dreaming."

Like one dreaming, indeed, she was unable to move, unable to cry out; her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; she could not lift the curtains; she could not advance, she could not tear herself away. She could only stand there rigid as stone, and behold the dreadful vision. Every line of it, every passing expression on Cesare's or Laura's face, burned itself into her brain with fierce and terrible precision. And in her tortured heart she was conscious of but one mute, continuous, childlike prayer--not to see any longer that which she saw--to be freed from her nightmare, waked from her dream. And all her inner forces were bent upon the effort to close her eyes, to lower her eyelids, and put a veil between her and that sight. Her prayer was not answered; she could not close her eyes.

Laura took her bouquet of white roses from her belt, and playfully struck Cesare's shoulder with them. Then she raised them to her face, breathing in their perfume, and kissing them. Smiling, she offered Cesare the roses that she had kissed, and he with his lips drank her kisses from them. After that, she kissed them again, convulsively, turning away her head. Their eyes burned, his and hers. Again he sought her kisses amongst the roses; and she put down her face to kiss them anew, at the same time with him. And slowly, from the cold, fragrant roses, their lips turned, and met in a kiss. Their hands were joined, their faces were near together, their lips met in a kiss, and their eyes that had burned, softened with fond light.

"Perhaps I am mad," Anna said to herself, hearing the wild blows of the blood in her brain.

And, to make sure, wishing to be convinced that it was all an hallucination, she prayed that they might speak; perhaps they were mere phantoms sent to kill her. No sound issued from their lips.

"Lord, Lord--a word," she prayed in her heart. "A sound--a proof that they are real, or that they are spectres."

She heard, indeed, a deep sigh. It came from Laura, after their long kiss. The girl jumped up, freed her hands from Cesare's, and took two or three steps into the room. She was nearer to Anna now. Her cheeks were red, her hair was ruffled; and she, with a vague, unconscious movement, lifted it up behind her ears. Her lips were parted in a smile that revealed her dazzling teeth. Her gaze wandered, proud and sad.

"Heaven, heaven give her strength to go away. Give her strength, give me strength," prayed Anna, in her dream, in her madness.

But Laura had not the strength to go away. She returned to Cesare; she sat down at his feet, looking up at him, smiling upon him, holding his hand, adoring him. And Cesare, his eyes filled with tears, kissed her lips again and again--a torrent of kisses.

"Cesare cannot weep. They are phantoms. I am mad," said Anna. A terrible fire leapt from her heart to her brain, making her tremble as in a fever; and then a sudden cold seemed to freeze her. She had heard. These phantoms had spoken. They were a man and a woman; they were her husband, Cesare, and her sister Laura. Laura had drawn away from Cesare's fury of kisses, and was standing beside him, while he, still seated, held her two hands. They were smiling upon each other.

"Do you love me?" he asked.

"I love you," answered Laura.

"How much do you love me?"

"So much! So much!"

"But how much?"

"Absolutely."

"And--how long will you love me, Laura?"

"Always."

Now Anna was shivering with cold. She was not mad. She was not dreaming. Her teeth chattered. It seemed as if she had been standing there for a century. She dreaded being discovered, as if she were guilty of a crime. But she could not move, she could not go away. It was too much, too much; she could not endure it! She covered her mouth with her fan, to suffocate her voice, to keep from crying out, and cursing God and love. Laura began to speak.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

"Yes, I love you."

"How much do you love me?"

"With all my heart, Laura."

"How long have you loved me?"

"Always."

"How long will you love me?"

"Always."

Unendurable, unendurable! A wild anger tempted Anna to enter the room, to tear down the curtains, to scream. It was unendurable.

Cesare said to Laura, very softly, "Go away now."

"Why, love?"

"Go away. It is late. You must go."

"Ah, you're a bad love--bad!"

"Don't say that. Don't look like that. Go away, Laura."

And fondly, he put his arm round her waist and led her to the door.

She moved reluctantly, leaning her head upon his shoulder, looking up at him tenderly.

At the door they kissed again.

"Good-bye, love," said Laura.

"Good-bye, love," said Cesare.

The girl went away.

Cesare came back, looking exhausted, deathlike. He lit a cigarette.

Anna, holding her breath, crossed the vestibule, the smoking-room, the drawing-room, and at last reached her own room, and shut her door behind her. She had run swiftly, instinctively, with the instinct that guides a wounded animal. Her maid came and knocked. She called to her that she did not need her. Then some one else knocked.

"Anna, Anna," said the calm voice of her husband.

"What do you want?" She had to lean on a chair, to keep from falling; her voice was dull.

"Was there no performance? Or were you ill?"

"There was no performance."

"Have you just returned?"

"Yes, just returned." But the lie made her blush.

"And your Highness is invisible? I should like to pay your Highness my respects."

"No," she answered, with a choking voice.

"Good-bye, love," he called.

"Oh, infamous, infamous!" she cried.

But he had already moved away, and did not hear.

* * * * *

For a long while she lay on her bed, burying her face in her pillow, biting it, to keep down her sobs. She was shivering with cold, in spite of the feather coverlet she had drawn over her. All her flesh and spirit were in furious revolt against the thing that she had seen and heard.

She rose, and looked round her room. It was in disorder--the dress she had worn, her fan, her jewels tossed pell-mell hither and thither. Slowly, with minute care, she gathered these objects up, and put them in their places.

Then she rang the bell.

Her maid came, half asleep.

"What time is it?" asked Anna, forgetting that on the table beside her stood the clock that Cesare had given her.

"It's one," responded the maid.

"So late?" inquired her mistress. "You may go to bed."

"And your Excellency?"

"You can do nothing for me."

But the maid began to smooth down the bed. Feeling the pillow wet with tears, she said, with the affectionate familiarity of Neapolitan servants, "Whoever is good suffers."

The words went through her heart like a knife. Perhaps the servant knew. Perhaps she, Anna, had been the only blind member of the household. The whole miserable story of her desertion and betrayal was known and commented upon by her servants; and she was an object of their pity! Whoever is good suffers!

"Good night, your Excellency, and may you sleep well," said the maid.

"Thank you. Good-night."

She was alone again. She had not had the courage to ask whether her husband had come home; he was most probably out, amusing himself in society.

For a half hour she lay on her sofa; then she got up. A big lamp burned on her table, but before going away her maid had lighted another lamp, a little ancient Pompeian lamp of bronze that in old times had doubtless lighted Pompeian ladies to their trysts.

Anna took this lamp and left her room. The house was dark and silent. She moved towards Laura's room; and suddenly she remembered another night, like this, when she had stolen through a dark sleeping house to join Giustino Morelli on the terrace, and offer to fly with him. Giustino Morelli, who was he? what was he? A shadow, a dream. A thing that had passed utterly from her life.