PART II

I.

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.

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.