“But has it sprouted?”
“No, not again!” she replied, looking down.
We were alone in a little skiff, which I was paddling myself with one
oar. Violante, Anatolia, and Oddo were in other boats rowed by the
boatmen. The river here was so wide and sluggish that it was almost
like a pond, and a dense flock of water-lilies covered it. The great
white flowers, shaped like roses, floated among their shining leaves,
diffusing a moist fragrance, which seemed to have the property of
slaking thirst.
It was here that Simonetto’s botanising had come to an end that fatal
autumn. I imagined the figure of the young botanist leaning over the
water exploring its slimy depths at the season when the water-lilies
are nearly over. His _hortus siccus_, no doubt, contained lifeless
specimens of all that aquatic flora which surrounded the ruins.
Massimilla’s eyes followed the movement of my oar as from time to time
it crushed a leaf or broke a stalk, and I said softly--
“Are you thinking of Simonetto?”
She started.
“How do you know?” she asked me again, much agitated, with flushing
cheeks.
“I know from Oddo....”
“Ah!” she said, without concealing her regret at this knowledge of
mine, which seemed to wound her. “Oddo told you....”
She relapsed into a silence which I felt to be a very painful one for
her. I stopped rowing for a few seconds, and the light boat rested
motionless amidst the wide extent of white blossoms.
“Did you love him very much?” I asked the silent maiden, with a
gentleness that reminded her perhaps of our earlier interviews.
“As I love Oddo, as I love Antonello,” she replied, with a tremble in
her voice, without raising her eyelids.