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.

At her sister's door she paused for a moment, then she opened it

noiselessly, and guided by the light of her lamp, approached her

sister's bed. Laura was sleeping peacefully; Anna held up her lamp

and looked at her.

She smiled in her sleep.

"Laura!" Anna called, so close to her that her breath fell on her

cheek. "Laura!"

Her sister moved slightly, but did not wake.

"Laura! Laura!"

Her sister sat up. She appeared frightened for a moment, but then she

composed herself with an effort.

"It is I, Laura," said Anna, putting her lamp on a table.

"I see you," returned Laura.

"Get up and come with me."

"What for?"

"Get up and come, Laura."

"Where, Anna?"

"Get up and come," said Anna, implacably.

"I won't obey you."

"Oh, you'll come," cried Anna, with an imperious smile.

"You're mistaken. I'll not come."

"You'll come, Laura."

"No, Anna."

"You're very much afraid of me then?"

"Here I am. I'll go where you like," Laura said, proudly, resenting

the imputation of fear. And she began to dress.

Anna waited for her, standing up. Laura proceeded calmly with her

toilet. But when she came to put on her frock of white wool, Anna

had a mad access of rage, and covered her face with her hands, to

shut out the sight. Four hours ago, only four hours ago, in that same

frock, Laura had been kissed by Cesare. Her sister seemed to her the

living image of treachery.

Laura moved about the room as if she was hunting for something.

"What are you doing?" asked Anna.

"I am looking for something."

And she drew from under a pocket-handkerchief her bunch of white

roses.

"Throw those flowers away," cried Anna.

"And why?"

"Throw those flowers away, Laura, Laura."

"No."

"By our Lady of Sorrows, I beseech you, throw them away."

"You have threatened me. You have no further right to beseech me,"

said Laura quietly, putting the flowers in her belt.

"Oh God!" cried Anna, pressing her hands to her temples.

"Let us go," she said at last.

Laura followed her across the silent house to her room.

"Sit down," said Anna.

"I am waiting," said Laura.

"Then you don't understand?" asked Anna, smiling.

"No--I understand nothing."

"Can't you imagine?"

"I have no imagination."

"And your heart--does your heart tell you nothing, Laura? Laura,

Laura, does your conscience tell you nothing?"

"Nothing," said the other quietly, lifting up the rich blonde hair

behind her ears. The same gesture that Anna had seen her make in

Cesare's room.

"Laura, you are my husband's mistress," Anna said, raising her arms

towards heaven.

"You're mad, Anna."

"My husband's mistress, Laura."

"You're mad."

"Oh, liar, liar! Disloyal and vile woman, who has not even the

courage of her love!" cried Anna, starting up, with flaming eyes.

"Beware, Anna, beware. Strong language at a moment like this is

dangerous. Say what you've got to say clearly; but don't insult me.

Don't insult me, because your diseased imagination happens to be

excited. Do you understand?"

"Oh, heavens, heavens!" exclaimed Anna.

"But you can see for yourself, you're mad. You see, you have nothing

to say to justify your insults."

"Oh, Madonna, Madonna, give me strength," prayed Anna, wringing her

hands.

"Do you see?" asked Laura. "You've called me here to vilify my

innocence."

"Laura," said poor Anna, trembling, "Laura, it's no guess of mine, no

inference, that you are my husband's mistress. I have not read it in

any anonymous letter. No servant has told me it. In such a case as

this no one has a right to believe an anonymous letter or a servant's

denunciation. One cannot on such grounds withdraw one's respect from

a person whom one loves."

"Well, Anna."

"But I have seen, I have seen," she cried, prey to so violent an

emotion that it seemed to her as if the thing she had seen was

visible before her again.

"What have you seen?" asked Laura, suddenly.

"Oh, horrible, horrible," cried Anna, remembering her vision.

"What have you seen?" repeated Laura, seizing Anna's arm.

"Oh, what a dreadful thing, what a dreadful thing," she sobbed,

covering her face with her hands.

But Laura was herself consumed with anger and pain; and she

drew Anna's hands from her face, and insisted, "Now--at this

very moment--you have got to tell me what you have seen. Do you

understand?"

And the other, turning pale at her threatening tone, replied: "You

wish to know what I have seen, Laura? And you ask me in a rage

of offended innocence, of wounded virtue? You are angry, Laura?

Angry--you? What right have you to be angry, or to speak to me as

you have done? Aren't you afraid? Have you no fear, no suspicions,

nothing? You threaten me; you tell me I am mad. You want to know what

I have seen; and you are haughty because you deem yourself secure,

and me a madwoman. But, to be secure, you should close the doors

behind you when you go to an assignation. When you are speaking of

love, and kissing, to be secure you should close the doors, Laura,

close the doors."

"I don't understand you," murmured Laura, very pale.

"This evening, at nine o'clock, when you were in Cesare's room--I

came home suddenly--you weren't expecting me--you were alone,

secure--and I saw through the door----"

"What?" demanded the other, with bowed head.

"As much as can be seen and heard. Remember."

Laura fell into a chair.

"Why have you done this? Why? Why?" asked Anna.

Laura did not answer.

"Don't you dare to answer? Oh, see how base you are! See how

perfidious you are. What manner of woman are you? Why did you do it?"

"Because I love Cesare."

"O Lord, Lord!" cried Anna, breaking into desperate sobs.

"Don't you know it? Haven't your eyes seen it? haven't your ears

heard it? Do you imagine that a woman such as I am goes into a man's

room if she doesn't love him! That she lets him kiss her, that she

kisses him, unless she loves him! What more have you to ask! I love

Cesare."

"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet," said Anna.

"And Cesare loves me," Laura went on.

"Be quiet. You are my sister. You are a young girl. Don't speak such

an infamy. Be quiet. Don't say that you and Cesare are two monsters."

"You have seen us together. I love Cesare, and he loves me."

"Monstrous, infamous!"

"It may be infamous, but it is so."

"But don't you realise what you are doing! Don't you feel that it is

infamous; Don't you understand how dreadful your offence is! Am I not

your sister--I whom you are betraying!"

"I loved Cesare from the beginning. You betrayed me."

"The excuse of guilt! I loved him, I love him. You are betraying me."

"You love him stupidly, and bore him; I love him well."

"He's a married man."

"He was married by force, Anna."

"He is my husband."

"Oh, very slightly!"

"Laura!" exclaimed Anna, wounded to the quick, she who was all wounds.

"I'm not blind," said Laura, tranquilly. "I can take in the

situation."

"But your conscience! But your religion! But your modesty, which is

soiled by such an atrocious sin!"

"I'm not your husband's mistress, you know that yourself."

"But you love him. You thrill at the touch of his hand. You kiss him.

You tell him you love him."

"Well, all that doesn't signify that I'm his mistress."

"The sin is as great."

"No, it's not as great, Anna."

"It's a deadly sin merely to love another woman's husband."

"But I'm not his mistress. Be exact."

"A change of words; the sin is the same."

"Words have their importance; they are the symbols of facts."

"It's an infamy," said Anna.

"Anna, don't insult me."

"Insult you! Do you pretend that that pretty pure face of yours is

capable of blushing under an insult? Can your chaste brow be troubled

by an insult? You have trampled all innocence and all modesty under

foot--you, the daughter of my mother! You have broken your sister's

heart--you, the daughter of the same mother! And now you say that I

insult you. Good!"

"You have no right to insult me."

"I haven't the right? Before such treachery? I haven't the right?

Before such dishonour?"

"If you will call upon your memory, you will see that you haven't the

right."

"What do you wish me to remember?"

"A single circumstance. Once upon a time, you, a girl like me,

abandoned your home, and eloped with a man you loved, a nobody, a

poor obscure nobody. Then you deceived me, Cesare, and everybody

else. By that elopement you dishonoured the graves of your father and

mother, and you dishonoured your name which is also mine."

"Oh, heavens, heavens, heavens!" cried Anna.

"You passed a whole day out of Naples, in an inn at Pompeii, alone

the whole day with a man you loved, in a private room."

"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress."

"Exactly. Nor am I Cesare Dias'."

"I wasn't Giustino Morelli's mistress," repeated Anna.

"I wasn't behind the door, as you were, to see the truth."

"Oh, cruel, wicked sister--cruel and wicked!"

"And please to have the fairness to remember that on that day Cesare

Dias rushed to your rescue. In charity, without saying a word to

reproach you, he brought you back to the home you had deserted. In

charity, without insulting you, I opened my arms to welcome you. In

charity we nursed you through your long illness, and never once did

we reproach you. You see, you see, you're unjust and ungrateful."

"But you have wounded me in my love, Laura. But I adore Cesare, and I

am horribly jealous of him. I can't banish the thought of your love

for him; I can remember nothing but your kisses. I feel as if I were

going mad. Oh, Laura, Laura, you who were so pure and beautiful, you

who are worthy of a young man's love, why do you throw away your life

and your honour for Cesare?"

"But you? Don't you also love him? You too are young. Yet didn't you

love him so desperately that you would gladly have died, if he hadn't

married you? I have followed your example, that is all. As you love

him, I love him, Anna. We are sisters, and the same passion burns in

our veins."

"Don't say that, don't say it. My love will last as long as my life,

Laura."

"And so will mine."

"Don't say it, don't say it."

"Until I die, Anna."

"Don't say it."

"My blood is like yours; my nerves are like yours; my heart is as

ardent as yours. My soul is consumed with love, as yours is. We are

the daughters of the same parents. Cesare has fascinated you, Cesare

has fascinated me."

"Oh, heavens, heavens! I must kill myself then. I must die!"

"Bah!" said Laura, with a movement of disdain.

"I will kill myself, Laura."

"Those who say it don't do it."

"You are deceiving yourself, wicked, scornful creature."

"Those who say it don't do it," repeated Laura, laughing bitterly.

"But understand me! I can't endure this betrayal. Understand! I--I

alone have the right to love Cesare. He is mine. I won't give him up

to anybody. My only refuge, my only comfort, my only consolation is

in my love. Don't you see that I have nothing else?"

"Luigi Caracciolo loves you, though," said Laura, smiling.

"What are you saying to me?"

"You might fall in love with him."

"You propose an infamy to me."

"But consider. I love Cesare; Cesare loves me and not you. But

Caracciolo loves you. Well, why not fall in love with him?"

"Because it would be infamous."

"You are beginning to insult me again, Anna. It is late. I am going

away."

"No, don't go yet, Laura. Think how terrible this thing is for me.

Listen to me, Laura, and call to aid all your kindness. I have

insulted you, it is true; but you can't know what jealousy is like,

you can't imagine the unendurable torture of it. Call to aid your

goodness, Laura. Think--we were nourished at the same breast, the

same mother's hands caressed us. Think--we have made our journey in

life together. Laura, Laura, my sister! You have betrayed me; you

have outraged me; in the past seven hours I have suffered all that it

is humanly possible to suffer; you can't know what jealousy is like.

Don't be impatient. Listen to me. It is a terrible moment. Don't

laugh. I am not exaggerating. Listen to me carefully. Laura, all that

you have done, I forget it, I forgive it. Do you hear? I forgive you.

I am sure your heart is good. You will understand all the affection

and all the meekness there are in my forgiveness."

And as if it were she who were the guilty one, she knelt before her

sister, taking her hand, kissing it, bathing it with her tears.

Laura, seeing this woman whom she had so cruelly wronged kneel

before her, closed her eyes, and for a moment was intensely pale.

But her soul was strong; she was able to conquer her emotion. For an

instant she was silent; then, coming to the supreme question of their

existence, she demanded: "And what do you expect in exchange for this

pardon?" She had the air of according a favour.

"Laura, Laura, you must be good and great, since I have forgiven you."

"What is your price for this forgiveness?"

"You must not love Cesare any more. Bravely you must cast that impure

love out of your soul, which it degrades. You must not love him any

more. And then, not only will my pardon be complete and absolute, but

you will find in me the fondest and tenderest of sisters. I will

devote my life to proving to you how much I love you. My sole desire

will be to make you happy; I will be your best and surest friend. But

you must be good and strong, Laura; you must remember that you are my

sister; you must forget Cesare."

"Anna, I cannot."

"Listen, listen. Don't answer yet. Don't decide yet. Don't speak the

last word yet, the awful word. Think, Laura, it is your future, it

is your life, that you are staking upon this love: a black future, a

fatal certainty of death, if you persist in it. But, on the contrary,

if you forget it--if a chaste and innocent impulse of affection for

me persuades you to put it from you--what peace, what calm! You will

find another man, a worthier man, a man of your own loftiness of

spirit, who will understand you, who will make you happy, whom you

can love with all your soul, in the consciousness of having done your

duty. You will be a happy wife, your husband will be a happy man, you

will be a mother, you will have children--you will have children,

you! But you must not love Cesare any more."

"Anna, I can't help it."

"Laura, don't make your mind up yet. For pity's sake, hear me. We

must find a way out of it, an escape. You will travel, you will make

a journey, a long journey, abroad; that will interest you. I'll

ask Cousin Scibilia to go with you. She has nothing to detain her;

she's a widow; she will go. You will travel. You can't think how

travelling relieves one's sufferings. You will see new countries,

beautiful countries, where your mind will rise high above the petty,

every-day miseries of life. Laura, Laura, see how I pray you, see how

I implore you. We have the same blood in our veins. We are children

of the same mother. You must not love Cesare any more."

"Anna, I can't help it."

Anna moved towards her sister; but when she found herself face to

face with her, an impulse of horror repelled her. She went to the

window and stood there, gazing out into the street, into the great

shadow of the night. When she came back, her face was cold, austere,

self-contained. Her sister felt that she could read a menace in it.

"Is that your last word?" asked Anna.

"My last word."

"You don't think you can change?"

"I don't think so."

"You know what you are doing?"

"Yes, I know."

"And you face the danger?"

"Where is the danger?" asked Laura, rising.

"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid," said Anna, carrying her

pocket-handkerchief to her lips and biting it. "I ask you if it

doesn't strike you as dangerous that two women such as I, Anna Dias,

and you, Laura Acquaviva, should live together in the same house and

love the same man with the same passion?"

"It is certainly very dangerous," said Laura slowly, standing up, and

looking into her sister's eyes.

"Leave me my husband, Laura," cried Anna, impetuously.

"Take him back--if you can. But you can't, you know. You never could."

"You're a monster. Go away," cried Anna, clenching her teeth,

clenching her fists, driving her nails into her flesh.

"It's at your bidding that I'm here. I came to show that I wasn't

afraid of you, that's all."

"Go away, monster, monster, monster!"

"Kill me, if you like; but don't call me by that name," cried Laura,

at last exasperated.

"You deserve that I should kill you, it is true. By all the souls

that hear me, by the souls of our dead parents, by the Madonna, who,

with them, is shuddering in heaven at your crime, you deserve that I

should kill you!"

"But Cesare would weep for me," taunted Laura, again mistress of

herself.

"It is true," rejoined Anna, icily. "Go away then. Go at once."

"Good-bye, Anna."

"Good-bye, Laura."

Leisurely, collectedly, she turned her back upon her sister, and

moved away, erect and supple in her white frock, with her light

regular footstep. Her hand turned the knob of the door, but on the

threshold she paused, involuntarily, and looked at Anna, who stood in

the middle of the room with her head bowed, her cheeks colourless,

her eyes expressionless, her lips violet and slightly parted,

testifying to her fatigue. Laura's hesitation was but momentary.

Shrugging her shoulders at that spectacle of sorrow, she closed the

door behind her, and went off through the darkness to her own room.

Anna was alone. And within herself she was offering up thanks to the

Madonna for having that night saved her from a terrible temptation.

For, from the dreadful scene that had just passed, only one thought

remained to her. She had besought her sister not to love Cesare any

more, promising in exchange all the devotion of her soul and body;

and Laura had thrice responded, obstinately, blindly, "I can't help

it." Well, when for the third time she heard those words, a sudden,

immense fury of jealousy had seized her; suddenly a great red cloud

seemed to fall before her eyes, and the redness came from a wound

in her sister's white throat, a wound which she had inflicted; and

the pale girl lay at her feet lifeless, unable for ever to say again

that she loved Cesare and would not cease to love him. Ah, for a

minute, for a minute, murder had breathed in Anna's poor distracted

heart, and she had wished to kill the daughter of her mother! Now,

with spent eyes, feeling herself lost and dying at the bottom of an

abyss, she uttered a deep prayer of thanksgiving to God, for that He

had swept the red cloud away, for that He had allowed her to suffer

without avenging herself. Slowly, slowly she sank upon her knees,

she clasped her hands, she said over all the old simple prayers of

her childhood, the holy prayers of innocence, praying that still,

through all the hopeless misery that awaited her, she might ever be

what she had been to-night, a woman capable of suffering everything,

incapable of revenge. And in this pious longing her soul seemed to be

lifted up, far above all earthly pain.

All her womanly goodness and weakness were mingled in her

renunciation of revenge.

The violent energy which she had shown in her talk with Laura had

given place to a mortal lassitude. She remained on her knees, and

continued to murmur the words of her orisons, but now she no longer

understood their meaning. Her head was whirling, as in the beginning

of a swoon. She dragged herself with difficulty to her bed, and threw

herself upon it, inert as a dead body, in utter physical exhaustion.

Laura had undone her. The whole long scene between them repeated

itself over and over in her mind; again she passed from tears to

anger, from jealousy to pleading affection; again she saw her

sister's pure white face, and the cynical smile that disfigured it,

and its hard incapacity for pity, fear, or contrition. Laura had

overthrown her, conquered her, undone her. Anna had gone to her,

strong in her outraged rights, strong in her offended love, strong

in her knowledge of her sister's treachery; she had expected to see

that proud brow bend before her, red with shame; she had expected

to see those fair hands clasped and trembling, imploring pardon;

she had expected to hear that clear voice utter words of penitence

and promises of atonement. But far from that, far from accepting

the punishment she had earned, the guilty woman had boldly defended

her guilt; she had refused with fierce courage to give way; she

had clung to her infamy, challenging her sister to do her worst.

Anna understood that not one word that she had spoken had made the

least impression upon Laura's heart, had stirred in it the faintest

movement of generosity or affection; she understood that from

beginning to end she had failed and blundered, knowing neither how to

punish nor how to forgive.

"I did not kill her. She has beaten me!" she thought.

And yet Anna was in the right; and Laura, by all human and all moral

law, was in the wrong. To love a married man, to love her sister's

husband, almost her own brother! Anna was right before God, before

mankind, before Cesare and Laura themselves. If, when her sister had

refused to surrender her husband to her, she had killed her, no human

being would have blamed her for it.

"And yet I did not kill her. She has beaten me!"

She tried to find the cause of her defeat, overwhelmed by the despair

with which good people see wrong and injustice triumph. She sought

for the cause of her defeat, but she could find none, none. She was

right--according to all laws, human and divine, she was in the

right; she alone was right. Oh, her agony was insupportable, more and

more dreadful as she got farther from the fact, and could see it in

its full hideousness, examine and analyse it in its full infamy.

"Beaten, beaten, beaten! bitterly worsted and overwhelmed!"

For the third time in her life she had been utterly defeated. She

had not known how to defend herself; she had not known how to assert

her rights, and conquer. On that fatal day at Pompeii, when Giustino

Morelli had abandoned her; on that fatal night at Sorrento, when

Cesare Dias had proposed his mephistophelian bargain to her, whereby

she was to renounce love, dignity, and her every prerogative as a

woman and a wife; at Pompeii and at Sorrento she had been worsted by

those who were in the wrong, by Giustino Morelli who could not love,

by Cesare Dias who would not.

And now again to-night--to-night, for the third time--betrayed by her

husband and her sister--she had not known how to conquer. At Naples,

as at Pompeii, as at Sorrento, she who was in the right had been

defeated by one who was in the wrong.

"But why? why?" she asked herself, in despair.

She did not know. It was contrary to all reason and all justice. She

could only see the fact, clear, cruel, inexorable.

It was destiny. A secret power fought against her, and baffled

every effort she attempted. It was a fatality which she bore within

herself, a fatality which it was useless to resist. All she could

wish for now was that the last word might be spoken soon.

"I must seek the last word," she thought.

She rose from her bed, and looked at the clock. It was four in the

morning.

She went to her writing-desk, and, leaning her head upon her hand,

tried to think what she had come there to do. Then she took a sheet

of paper, and wrote a few words upon it. But when she read them over,

they displeased her; she tore the paper up, and threw it away. She

wrote and tore up three more notes; at last she was contented with

this one:

"Cesare, I must say something to you at once. As soon as you read

these words, no matter at what hour of the night or morning, come to

my room.--ANNA."

She sealed the note in an envelope, and addressed it to her husband.

She left her room, to go to his. The door was locked; she could see

no light, hear no sound within. She slipped the letter through the

crack above the threshold.

"Cesare shall speak the last word," she thought.

She returned to her own room, and threw herself upon her bed to watch

and wait for him.

V.

Anna got up and opened her window, to let in the sun, but it was a

grey morning, grey in sky and sea. Lead-coloured clouds rested on the

hill of Posillipo; and the wide Neapolitan landscape looked as if it

had been covered with ashes. Few people were in the streets; and the

palm in the middle of the Piazza Vittoria waved its long branches

languidly in the wintry breeze.

Her eyes were burning and her eyelids were heavy. She went into her

dressing-room and bathed her face in cold water. Then she combed

her hair and fastened it up with a big gold pin. And then she put

on a gown of black wool, richly trimmed with jet, a morning street

costume. Was she going out? She did not know. She dressed herself in

obedience to the necessity which women feel at certain hours of the

day to occupy themselves with their toilets. But when she came to

fasten her brooch, a clover leaf set with black pearls, that Laura

had given her for a wedding-present, she discovered that one of the

pearls was gone. The clover-leaf brings luck, but now this one was

broken, and its power was gone.

Eleven o'clock struck, and somebody tapped discreetly at the door.

She could not find her voice, to answer.

The knock was repeated.

"Come in," she said feebly.

Cesare entered, calm and composed, carrying his hat and ebony

walking-stick in his hand.

"Good-morning. Are you going out?" he asked tranquilly.

"No. I don't know," she answered, with a vague gesture.

All her nerves were tingling, as she looked at the traitor's

handsome, wasted face, a face so quiet and smiling.

"You had something to say to me?" he reminded her, wrinkling his brow

a little.

"Yes."

"I came home late. I didn't want to disturb you," he said, producing

a cigarette, and asking permission with a glance to light it.

"You would not have disturbed me."

"I suppose it's nothing of much importance."

"It's a thing of great importance, Cesare."

"As usual," he said, with the shadow of a smile.

"I swear to you by the memory of my mother that nothing is more

important."

"Goodness gracious! Act three, scene four!" he exclaimed ironically.

"Scene last," she said, dully, tearing a few beads from her dress,

and fingering them.

"So much the better, if we are near the end. The play was rather

long, my dear." He was tapping his boot with his walking-stick.

"We will cut it short, Cesare. I have a favour to ask of you. Will

you grant it?"

"Ask, oh lovely lady; and in spite of the fact that last night you

closed your door upon me, here I am, ready to serve you."

"I have a favour to ask, Cesare."

"Ask it, then, before I go out."

"I want to make a long journey with you--to be gone a year."

"A second honeymoon? The like was never known."

"A journey of a year, do you understand? Take me as your travelling

companion, your friend, your servant. For a year, away from here, far

away."

"Taking with us our sister, our governess, our dog, our cat, and the

whole menagerie?"

"We two alone," she said.

"Ah," said he.

"What is your decision?"

"I will think about it."

"No. You must decide at once."

"What's the hurry? Are we threatened with an epidemic?"

"Decide now."

"Then I decide--no," he said.

"And why?" she asked, turning pale.

"Because I won't."

"Tell me your reason."

"I don't wish to travel."

"You have always enjoyed travelling."

"Well, I enjoy it no more. I am tired, I am old, I will stay at home."

"I implore you, let us go away, far from here."

"But why do you want to go away?"

"Listen. Don't ask me. Say yes."

"Why do you want to go away, Anna?"

"Because, I want to go. Do me the favour."

"Is my lady flying from some danger that threatens her virtue? From

some unhappy love?"

"There's something more than my virtue in danger. I am flying from an

unhappy love, Cesare," she said gravely, shutting her eyes.

"Heavens! And am I to mix myself up in these tragical complications?

No, Anna, no, I sha'n't budge."

"Is there no prayer that can move you. Will you always answer no?"

"I shall always say no."

"Even if I begged you at the point of death?"

"Fortunately your health is excellent," he rejoined, smiling slightly.

"We may all die--from one moment to another," she answered, simply.

"Let us go away together, Cesare."

"I have said no, and I mean no, Anna. Don't try to change me. You

know it's useless."

"Then will you grant me another favour? This one you will grant."

"Let's hear it."

"Let us go and live alone in the palace in Via Gerolimini."

"In that ugly house?"

"Let us live there alone together."

"Alone? How do you mean?"

"Alone, you and I."

"Without Laura?"

"Without Laura."

"Ah," he said.

She looked at him pleadingly, and in her brown eyes he must have been

able to read the sorrowful truth. But he had no pity; he would not

spare her the bitter confession of it.

"Be frank," he said, with some severity. "You wish to separate from

your sister!"

"Yes."

"And why? Tell me the reason."

"I can't tell you. I wish to separate from Laura."

"When?"

"At once. To-day."

"Indeed? Have you had a quarrel? I'll be peacemaker."

"I doubt it," she said, with a strange smile.

"If you'll tell me what you've quarrelled about, I'll make peace

between you."

"But why do you ask these questions and make these offers? I want to

separate from my sister. That is all."

"And I don't wish to," he said, looking coldly into his wife's eyes.

"You don't wish to be parted from Laura!" she cried, feeling her feet

giving way beneath her.

"I don't indeed."

"Then I will go away myself, she cried, her brain reeling.

"Do as you like," he answered, calmly.

"Oh, heaven help me," she murmured, under her breath, staggering,

losing all her strength.

"Now we have come to the fainting-fit," said Cesare, looking at her

scornfully, "and so will end this scene of stupid jealousy."

"What jealousy! Who has spoken of jealousy?" she asked haughtily.

"Must I inform you that you have done nothing else for the past

half-hour! It strikes me that you have lost the little good sense you

ever had. And I give you notice that I'm not going to make myself

ridiculous on your account."

"You wish to stay with Laura!"

"Not only I, but you too. For the sake of the world's opinion, as

well as for our own sakes, we can't desert the girl. She's been

confided to our protection. It would be a scandal which I'll not

permit you to make. If I have to suffer a hundred deaths, I'll not

allow you to make a scandal. Do you understand!"

She looked at him, changing colour, feeling that her last hope was

escaping her.

"And then," he went on, "I don't know your reasons for not wishing

to live any longer with your sister. She's good, she's well-behaved,

she's serious; she gives you no trouble; you have no right to find

fault with her. It's one of your whims--it's your everlasting desire

to be unhappy. Anyhow, your idiotic caprice will soon enough be

gratified. Laura will soon be married."

"Do you wish Laura to marry!"

"I wish it earnestly."

"You'll be glad of it!"

"Most glad," he answered, smiling.

Ah, in the days of her womanly innocence, before her mind had been

opened to the atrocious revelations of their treason, she would not

have understood the import of that answer and that smile; but she

knew now the whole depth of human wickedness. He smiled, and curled

his handsome black moustaches. Anna lost her head.

"Then you are more infamous than Laura," she cried.

"The vocabulary of Othello," he cried, calmly. "But, you know, it has

been proved that Othello was epileptic."

"And he killed Desdemona," said Anna.

"Does it strike you that I look like Desdemona?"

"Not you, not you."

"And who then?"

"Laura."

"Your folly is becoming dangerous, Anna."

"Imminently, terribly dangerous, Cesare."

"Fortunately you take it out in words, not in actions," he concluded,

smiling.

She wrung her hands.

"Last night Laura owed her life to a miracle," she said.

"But what has been going on here?" he exclaimed, agitated, rising to

his feet. "And where is Laura?"

"Oh, fear nothing, fear nothing on her account. I've not harmed her.

She's alive. She's well. She's very well. No wrinkle troubles her

beauty, no anxiety disturbs her mind. Fear nothing. She is a sacred

person. Your love protects her. Listen, Cesare; she was here last

night alone in this room with me; and I had over her the right given

me by heaven, given me by men; and I _did not kill her_."

Cesare had turned slightly pale; that was all.

"And if it is permitted to talk in your own high-sounding rhetoric,

what was the ground of your right to kill her?" he asked, looking

at the handle of his walking-stick, and emphasising the disdainful

_you_.[F]

"Laura has betrayed me. She's in love with you."

"Nothing but this was lacking! That Laura should be in love with me!

I'm glad to hear it. You are sure of it? It's an important matter for

my vanity. Are you sure of it?"

"Don't jeer at me, Cesare. You don't realise what you are doing.

Don't smile like that. Don't drive me to extremes."

"There are two of you in love with me--for I suppose you still love

me, don't you? It's a family misfortune. But since you both adore me,

it's probably not my fault."

"Cesare, Cesare!"

"And confess that I did nothing to win you."

"You have betrayed me, Cesare. You are in love with Laura."

"Are you sure of it?"

"Sure, Cesare."

"But bear in mind that certainties are somewhat rare in this world.

For the past few minutes I've been examining myself, to discover if

indeed I had in my soul a guilty passion for Laura. Perhaps I am mad

about her, without knowing it. But you, who are an expert in these

affairs, you are sure of it. Have the goodness to explain to me, oh,

passionate Signora Dias, in what manner I have betrayed you, loving

your sister. Describe to me the whole blackness of my treason. Tell

me in what my--infamy--consists. Wasn't it infamy you called it? I'm

not learned in the language of the heart."

"Oh, God! oh, God!" sobbed Anna, her face buried in her hands,

horrified at what she heard and saw.

"I hope we've not to pass the morning invoking the Lord, the Virgin,

and the Saints. What do you suppose they care for your idiocy, Anna?

They are too wise; and I should be wiser if I cared nothing for it,

either. But when your rhetoric casts a slur upon others, it can't be

overlooked. I beg you, Signora Dias, to do your husband the kindness

of stating your accusations precisely. Set forth the whole atrocity

of his conduct. I fold my hands, and sit here on this chair like a

king on his judgment-seat. I wait, only adding that you have already

used up a good deal of my patience."

"But has Laura told you nothing?"

"Nothing, my dear lady."

"Where is she?"

"She's gone to church, I hear."

"Quietly gone to church?"

"Do you fancy that all women dance in perpetual convulsions to the

tune of their sentiments, Signora Dias? No, for the happiness of men,

no. Our dear and wise Minerva has gone to mass, for to-day is Sunday."

"With that horrible sin on her conscience! Does she think she can lie

even to God? But it's a sacrilege."

"Ah, we're to have a mystical drama, a passion-play now, are we? Dear

lady, I see that you have nothing to say to me, and I make my adieux."

He started to go, but she barred the way to him.

"Don't go, Cesare; don't leave me. Since you will have it so,

you shall hear from my lips, though they tremble with horror in

pronouncing it, the story of your infamy. I will repeat it to you

to-day as I repeated it to Laura last night; and I hope it may burn

in your heart as it burns in mine. Ah, you laugh; you have the

boldness to laugh. You treat this talk as a joke. You sneer at my

anger. You would like to get away from me. I annoy you. My voice

wearies you. And what I have to say to you will perhaps bring a

blush of shame even to your face, corrupt man that you are. But you

cannot leave me. You are obliged to remain here. You must give me an

account of your betrayal. Ah, don't smile, don't smile; that will do

no good; your smile can't turn me aside. I won't allow you to leave

me. Remember, Cesare, remember what you did last evening. Remember

and be ashamed. Remember how cruel, how wicked, how atrocious it was,

what happened last evening between you and my sister. Under my eyes

Cesare, and for long minutes, so that I could have no doubt. I could

not imagine that I was mad or dreaming. I saw it all, my ears heard

the words you spoke, the sound of your kisses, your long kisses. I

could not doubt. Oh, how horrible it is for a woman who loves to see

the proof that she is betrayed! What new, unknown capacities for

sorrow open in her soul! Oh, what have you done to me, Cesare, you

whom I adored! You and my sister Laura, what have you done to me!"

She fell into a chair, crushing her temples between her hands.

"Is it your habit to listen at doors? It's not considered good form,"

said Cesare coldly.

"Do you wish me to die, Cesare? How could you forget that I loved

you, that I had given you my youth, my beauty, all my heart, all my

soul, that I adored you with every breath, that you alone were the

reason for my being? You have forgotten all this, forgotten that I

live only for you, my love--you have forgotten it?"

"These sentiments do you honour, though they're somewhat exaggerated.

Buy a book of manners, and learn that it's not the thing to listen at

doors."

"It was my right to listen, do you understand? I was defending

my love, my happiness, my all; but the terrible thing I saw has

destroyed for ever everything I cared for."

"Did you really see such a terrible thing?" he asked, smiling.

"If I should live a thousand years, nothing could blot it from my

mind. Oh, I shall die, I shall die; I can only forget it by dying."

"You are suffering from cerebral dilatation. It was nothing but a

harmless scene of gallantry--it was a jest, Anna."

"Laura said that she loved you. I heard her."

"Of course, girls of her age always say they're in love."

"She kissed you, Cesare. I saw her."

"And what of that? Girls of her age are fond of kissing. They're none

the worse for it."

"She was in your arms, Cesare, and for so long a time that to me it

seemed a century."

"It's not a bad place, you know, Signora Dias," he responded, smiling.

"Oh, how low, how monstrous! And you, Cesare, you told her that you

loved her. I heard you."

"A man always loves a little the woman that is with him. Besides,

I couldn't tell her that I hated her; it would scarcely have been

polite. I know my book of manners. There's at least one member of our

family who preserves good form."

"Cesare, you kissed her."

"I'd defy you to have done otherwise, if you'd been a man. You don't

understand these matters."

"On the lips, Cesare."

"It's my habit. It's not a custom of my invention, either. It's

rather old. I suspect it took its rise with Adam and Eve."

"But she's a young girl, an innocent young girl, Cesare."

"Girls are not so innocent as they used to be, Anna. I assure you the

world is changing."

"She is my sister, Cesare."

"That's a circumstance quite without importance. Relationship counts

for nothing."

She looked at him with an expression of intense disgust.

"You, then, Cesare," she said, "have no sense of the greatness of

this infamy. She at least, Laura, the other guilty person, turned

pale, was troubled, trembled with passion and with terror. You--no!

Here you have been for an hour absolutely imperturable; not a shade

of emotion has crossed your brazen face; your voice hasn't changed;

you feel no fear, no love, no shame; you are not even surprised. She

at least shuddered and cried out; she is an Acquaviva! It is true

that, though she saw my anger and my despair, she had neither pity

nor compunction, but her passion for you, at least, was undisguised.

She had feeling, strength, will. But you--no. You, like her, indeed,

could see me weep my heart out, could see me convulsed by the most

unendurable agony, and have not an ounce of pity for me; but your

hardness does not spring, like hers, from love; no, no; from icy

indifference. You are as heartless as a tombstone. She, at least,

has the courage, the audacity, the effrontery of her wickedness; she

declares boldly that she loves you, that she adores you, that she

will never cease to love you, that she will always adore you. She is

my sister. In her heart there is the same canker that is in mine--a

canker from which we are both dying. You--no! Love? Passion? Not even

an illusion. Nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry! A half-hour

of amusing flirtation, without consequence! But what does it mean,

then, to say that we love? Is it a lie that a man feels justified

in telling any woman? And what is a kiss? A fugitive contact of the

lips, immediately forgotten? So many false kisses are given in the

course of a day and night! Nonsense, triviality, rubbish! It's bad

form to spy at doors; its exaggeration to call a thing infamous;

it's madness to be jealous. And the sin that you have committed,

instead of originating in passion, which might in some degree excuse

it, you reduce to an every-day vulgarity, a commonplace indecency;

my sister becomes a vulgar flirt, you a vulgar seducer, and I a

vulgar termagant screaming out her morbid jealousy. The whole

affair falls into the mud. My sister's guilty love, your caprice, my

despair, all are in the mud, among the most disgusting human garbage,

where there is no spiritual light, no cry of sorrow, where everything

is permissible, where the man expires and the beast triumphs. Do you

know what you are, Cesare?"

"No, I don't know. But if you can tell me, I shall be indebted for

the favour."

"You are a man without heart, without conscience; a soul without

greatness and without enthusiasm; you are a lump of flesh, exhausted

by unworthy pleasures and morbid desires. You are a ruin, in heart,

in mind, in senses; you belong to the class of men who are rotten;

you fill me with fright and with pity. I did not know that I was

giving my hand to a corpse scented with heliotrope, that I was

uniting my life to the mummy of a gentleman, whose vitiated senses

could not be pleased by a young, beautiful, and loving wife, but must

crave her sister, her pure, chaste, younger sister! Have you ever

loved, Cesare? Have you ever for a moment felt the immensity of real

love? In your selfishness you have made an idol of yourself, an idol

without greatness. A thing without viscera, without pulses, without

emotion! You are corrupt, perverted, depraved, even to the point

of betraying your wife who adores you, with her sister whom you do

not love! Ah, you are a coward, a dastard; that's what you are, a

dastard!"

She wrung her hands and beat her temples, pacing the room as a

madwoman paces her cell. But not a tear fell from her eyes, not a sob

issued from her breast.

He stood still, his face impenetrable; not one of her reproaches

had brought a trace of colour to it. She threw herself upon a sofa,

exhausted; but her eyes still burned and her lips trembled.

"Now that you have favoured me with so amiable a definition of

myself," said he, "permit me to attempt one of you."

His tone was so icy, he pronounced the words so slowly, that Anna

knew he was preparing a tremendous insult. Instinctively, obeying the

blind anger of her love, she repeated, "You are a dastard; that's

what you are, a dastard."

"My dear, you are a bore--that's what _you_ are."

"What do you say?" she asked, not understanding.

"You're a bore, my dear."

The insult was so atrocious, that for the first time in the course

of their talk her eyes filled with tears, and a sigh burst from her

lips--lips that were purple, like those of a dying child. It seemed

as if something had broken in her heart.

"Nothing but a bore. I don't employ high-sounding words, you see. I

speak the plain truth. You're a bore."

Another sigh, a sigh of insupportable physical pain, as if the hard

word _bore_ had cut her flesh, like a knife.

"You flatter yourself that you're a woman of grand passions," he went

on, after looking at his watch, and giving a little start of surprise

to see how much time he had wasted here. "No? You flatter yourself

that you're a creature of impulse, a woman with a fate, a woman

destined to a tragic end; and to satisfy this notion, you complicate

and embroil and muddle up your own existence, and mortally bore those

who are about you. With your rhetoric, your tears, your sobs, your

despair, your interminable letters, your livid face and your gray

lips, you're enough to bore the very saints in heaven."

He pretended not to see her imploring eyes, which had suddenly lost

their anger, and were craving mercy.

"Remember all the stupidities you've committed in the past four or

five years," he went on, "and all the annoyance you've given us. You

were a handsome girl, rich, with a good name. You might have married

any one of a dozen men of your own age, your own rank, gentlemen, who

were in love with you. That would have been sensible, orderly; you

would have been as happy as happy can be. But what! Anna Acquaviva,

the romantic heroine, condescend to be happy! No, no. That were

beneath her! So you had to fancy yourself in love with a beggar whom

you couldn't marry."

She made a gesture, as if to defend Giustino Morelli.

"Oh, did you really love him? Thanks for the compliment; you're

charming this morning. Passion, inequality of position, drama, flight

into Egypt, fortunately without a child--forgive the impropriety, but

it escaped me. Morelli, chancing to be a decent fellow, Morelli ran

away, poor devil! and our heroine treated herself to the luxury of a

mortal illness. We, Laura, I, everybody, were bored by the flight,

bored by the illness. The lesson was a severe one, and most women

would have been cured of their inclination towards the theatrical, as

well as of their scarlet fever. But not so Anna Acquaviva. It didn't

matter to her that she had risked her reputation, her honour; it

didn't matter to her that she had staked the name of her family; all

this only excited her imagination. And, behold, she begins her second

romance, her second drama, her second tragedy, and enter upon the

scene, to be bored to death, Signor Cesare Dias!"

"Oh, Holy Virgin, help me," murmured Anna, pressing her hands to her

temples.

"Dramatic love for Cesare Dias, an old man, a man who has never

gone in for passion, who doesn't wish to go in for it, who is tired

of all such bothersome worries. Anna Acquaviva gives herself up to

an unrequited love, 'one of the most desolating experiences of the

soul'--that's a phrase I found in one of your letters. Desolation,

torture, spasms, despair, bitterness, these are the words which our

ill-fated heroine, Anna Acquaviva, employs to depict her condition

to herself and to others. And Cesare Dias, who had arranged his life

in a way not to be bored and not to bore anyone, Cesare Dias, who

is an entirely common and ordinary person, happy in his mediocrity,

suddenly finds himself against his will dragged upon the scene as

hero! He is the man of mysteries, the man who will not love or who

loves another, the superior man, the neighbour of the stars. And

nevertheless we find a means of boring him."

"Ah, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare!" she said, beseeching compassion.

"Imbecile ought to be added to the name of Cesare Dias. That's the

title which I best deserve. Only an imbecile--and I was one for

half-an-hour--could have ceded to your sentimental hysterics. I

was an imbecile. But to let you die, to complete your tragedy of

unrequited love----"

"Oh, why didn't you let me die?" she cried.

"I believe it would have been as well for many of us. What a comfort

for you, dear heroine, to die consumed by an unhappy passion! Gaspara

Stampa, Properzia de' Rossi, and other illustrious ladies of ancient

times, with whose names you have favoured me in your letters, would

have found their imitator. I'm sure you would have died blessing me."

Bowing her head, she sighed deeply, as if she were indeed dying.

"Instead of letting you die, I went through the dismal farce of

marrying you. And I assure you that I've never ceased to regret it. I

regretted it the very minute after I'd made you my idiotic proposal.

Ah, well, every man has his moments of inexplicable weakness, and he

pays dearly for them. And marriage, alas, hasn't proved a sentimental

comedy. With your pretentions to passion, to love, to mutual

adoration, you've bored me even more than I expected."

"But what, then, is marriage from your point of view?" she cried.

"A bothersome obligation, when a man marries a woman like you."

"You would have preferred my sister?" she asked, exasperated. But she

was at once sorry for this vulgarity; and he speedily punished it.

"Yes, I should have preferred your sister. She's not a bore. I find

her extremely diverting."

"She loved you from the beginning," she says. "A pity she didn't tell

you so."

"A pity. I assure you I should have married her."

"Ah, very well."

But suddenly she raised her eyes to her husband; and at the sight of

that beloved person her courage failed her. She took his hand, and

said, "Ah, Cesare, Cesare, you are right. But I loved you, I loved

you, and you have deceived me with my sister."

"Signora Dias, you have rather a feeble memory," he returned, icily,

drawing his hand away.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that you easily forget. We are face to face; you can't lie.

Have I ever told you that I loved you?"

"No--never," she admitted, closing her eyes agonised to have to admit

it.

"Have I ever promised to love you?"

"No--never."

"Well, then, according to the laws of love, I've not deceived you,

my dear Anna. My heart has never belonged to you, therefore it's not

been taken from you. I promised nothing, therefore I owe you nothing."

"It's true. You're right, Cesare," she said; draining this new cup of

bitterness that he had distilled for her.

"Perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of the land. Very good;

according to the law a man and wife are required to be mutually

faithful. A magistrate would say that I had betrayed you. But

consider a little. Make an effort of memory, Anna, and recall

the agreement I proposed to you that evening at Sorrento, before

committing my grand blunder. I told you that I wished to remain

absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and you consented. Is it true or

not true?"

"It is true. I consented."

"I told you that I would tolerate no interference on your part with

my relations with other women; and remember, Anna, you consented. Is

that true or untrue?"

"It is true," she said, feeling that she was falling into an abyss.

"You see, therefore, that neither according to the laws of love nor

according to the laws of marriage have I betrayed you. And if you

had a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if you had the

least loyalty, you would at once confess that I have not betrayed

you. You accepted the whole bargain. I am free in heart, and at

liberty to do as I like. I have not betrayed you. Confess it."

"Cesare, Cesare, be human, be Christian; don't require me to say

that."

"Tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, Anna. I desire to

establish the fact that I haven't betrayed you, my dear. For what I

did last night, for what I may have done on any other night, for what

I may do any night in the future, I have your own permission. Confess

it."

"I can't say that, do you understand?" she cried. "Oh, you are

always in the right; you always know how to put yourself in the

right. You are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy, in your

wickedness, in your frightful corruption; you were right in proposing

that disgraceful bargain to me, which I was not ashamed to accept,

and which you to-day so justly and so appropriately remind me of.

But I believed that to love, to adore a man as I loved and adored

you, would be a charm to conquer with; and I have lost. For you are

stronger than I; indifference is stronger than love; selfishness

is stronger than passion. Generous abandonment cannot overcome the

refined calculation of a corrupt man. I am wrong, I alone, I confess

it--since I loved you to the point of dying for you, since I imagined

that that was enough, since I had in my soul the divine hope of

winning you by my love. I am wrong, I confess it; yes, I confess

it. I cannot love nor hate nor live. I am nothing but a bore, a

superfluous person, and a tiresome; it is true; it is true. Say it

again."

"If you wish it, I will."

"You are right. You are always right. I have done nothing but

blunder. I have always obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. I fled

from my home. I ought not to have loved you, and I loved you. I

loved you; I have bored you; and I myself, of my free will, gave you

permission to betray me. You are the most vicious man I know. You're

unredeemed by a thought or a feeling. You horrify me. Under the same

roof with your wife, you have committed an odious sin--a sin that

would make the worst men shudder. And I can't punish you, because

I consented to it; because I debased the dignity of my love before

you; because indeed I am a cowardly and infamous creature. See how

right you are! You have sinned, but so far as I am concerned you

are innocent. I am infamous and cowardly, because I ought to have

died rather than accept that loathsome bargain. Forgive me if I have

upbraided you. I'll ask Laura's pardon too. No human being is soiled

with an infamy so great as mine. Forgive me."

Perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of madness; perhaps he

saw the light of madness in her eyes. But he was unmoved. She was a

woman who had led him into committing a folly, who had bored him,

and, what was more, who would like to continue to bore him in the

future. He was unmoved. He was glad to have got the better of her in

this struggle. He was unmoved. He thought it time to leave her, if he

would retain his advantage.

"Good-bye, Anna," he said, rising.

"Don't go away, don't go away," she cried, throwing herself before

him.

"Do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" he asked, drawing on his

gloves. "For the rest, we've said all there is to say. I can't think

you have any more insults to favour me with."

"You hate me, do you?"

"No, I don't hate you exactly."

"Don't go away. Don't go away. I must tell you something very

serious."

"Good-bye, Anna," he repeated, moving towards the door.

"Cesare, if you go away, I shall do something desperate," she cried,

convulsively tearing her hair.

"You'd be incapable. To do anything desperate one must have talent.

And you're a fool," he replied, smiling ironically.

"Cesare, if you go away, I shall die."

"Bah, bah, you'll not die. To die one must have courage." And he

opened the door and went out.

She ran to the threshold. He was already at a distance. She heard

the street door close behind him. For a few minutes she stood there,

fearing to move lest she should fall; then mechanically she turned

back. She went to her looking-glass, repaired the disorder of her

hair, and put on a hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. She

forgot nothing. Her pocket-handkerchief was in her muff; in her hand

she carried her card-case of carved Japanese ivory.

At last she left her room, and entered her husband's. A servant was

putting it in order; but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took

himself off. She was alone there, in the big brown chamber, in the

gray winter daylight. She went to her husband's desk, and sat down

before it, as if she were going to write. But, after a moment's

thought, she did not write. She opened a drawer, took something from

it, and concealed it in her pocket.

After that, she passed through the house and out into the street.

She crossed the Piazza Vittoria, and entered the Villa Nazionale.

Children were playing by the fountain, and she stopped for a moment

to look at them. Twice she made the tour of the Villa; then she

looked at her watch; then she seated herself on one of the benches.

There were very few people abroad. The damp earth was covered with

dead leaves.

She fixed her eyes upon the dial of her watch, counting the minutes

and the seconds. All at once she put her hand into her pocket, and

felt the thing that she had hidden there.

Anna rose. It was two o'clock.

She left the Villa, walking towards the Chiatamone. Before the

door of a little house in the Via del Chiatamone she stopped. She

hesitated for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, and let

it fall.

The door was opened by Luigi Caracciolo.

He did not speak. He took her hand, and drew her into the house.

They crossed two antechambers, hung with old tapestries, ornamented

with ancient and modern arms, and with big Delft vases filled with

growing palms, a smoking-room furnished with rustic Swiss chairs and

tables, and entered a drawing-room. The curtains were drawn, the

lamps lighted. The floor and the walls were covered with Oriental

carpets; the room was full of beautiful old Italian furniture,

statues, pictures, bronzes. There were many flowers about, red and

white roses, subtly perfumed.

Caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave them to Anna.

"Dear Anna--my dear love," he said.

A faint colour came to her cheeks.

"What is it? Tell me, Anna. Dear one, dear one!"

"Don't speak to me like that," she said.

"Do I offend you? I can't think that I offend you--I who feel for you

the deepest tenderness, the most absolute devotion."

He took her hands.

"It is dark here," she said.

"The day was so sad, the daylight was so melancholy. I have waited

for you so many hours, Anna."

"I have come, you see."

"Thank you for having remembered your faithful servant." And

delicately he kissed her gloved hand.

"Why not open the curtains a little?" she asked.

He drew aside his curtains, and let in the ashen light. She went to

the window, and looked out upon the sea.

"Anna, Anna, come away. Somebody might see you."

"It doesn't matter."

"But I can't allow you to compromise yourself, Anna; I love you too

much."

"I have come here to compromise myself," she said.

"Then--you love me a little?" he demanded, trying to draw her away

from the window.

She did not answer. She sat down in an arm-chair.

"Tell me that you love me a little, Anna."

"I don't love you."

"Dear Anna, dear Anna," he murmured with his caressing voice, "how

can I believe you, since you are here. Tell me that you love me a

little. For three years I have waited for that word. Dear Anna, sweet

Anna, you know that I have adored you for so long a time. Anna, Anna!"

"What has happened was bound to happen," she said.

"Anna, I conjure you,[G] tell me that you love me."

She shuddered as she heard him use the familiar pronoun.

"Do you love me?"

"I don't know. I know nothing."

"Dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense

transport of love.

He drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek.

A cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified,

terrified, and tried to leave the room.

"Oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. Don't go away. Anna, Anna, forgive

me if I have offended you. I love you so! If you go away I shall die."

"People don't die for such slight things."

"People die of love."

"Yes. But one must have courage to die."

"Don't let us talk of these dismal things. My love, we mustn't talk

of things that will sadden you. Your beautiful face is troubled. Tell

me that you forgive me. Do you forgive me?"

"I forgive you."

"I don't believe it. You don't forgive me. You love another."

"No, no--no other."

"And Cesare?"

But scarcely had he spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. Her

eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion.

"Listen," she said. "If you have a heart, if you have any pity, if

you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name

him."

"You are right." But then he added, "And yet you loved him, you love

him still."

"No. I love no one any more."

"Why would you not accept me when I proposed for you?"

"Because."

"Why did you marry that old man?"

"Because."

"And now why do you love him? Why do you love him?"

"I don't know."

"You see, you do love him," he cried in despair.

"Oh, God, oh, God!" she sobbed.

"Oh, I am a fool. Forgive me, forgive me. But I love you, and I lose

my head. I love you, and I am desperate. And I need to know if you

still love him. You will always love him? Is it so?"

"Till death," she said, with a strange look and accent.

"Say it again."

"Till death," she repeated, with the same strange intonation.

They were silent.

Luigi Caracciolo put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly

towards him.

Her eyes were fixed and void. She did not feel his arms about her.

She did not feel his kisses. He kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet

white throat, he kissed her little rosy ear. Anna was absorbed in a

desperate meditation, far from all human things. He kissed her face,

her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. But suddenly she felt his

embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it

was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous

passion, it uttered confused delirious words. Silently, looking at

him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself.

"Let me go," she said.

"Anna, Anna, I love you so--I have loved you so long!"

"Let me go, let me go!"

"You are my adored one--I adore you above all things."

"Let me go. You horrify me."

He let her go.

"But what have you come here for?" he asked, sorrowfully.

"I have come to commit an infamy."

"Anna, Anna, you are killing me!"

She looked at him fixedly.

"What is it, Anna? Something is troubling you, and you won't tell me

what it is. My poor friend! You have come here with an anguish in

your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have come here to weep;

and I have behaved like a brute, a blackguard."

"No, you are good, I shall remember you," and she gave him her hand.

"Don't go away. Tell me first what it is. Tell me what you came for.

Tell me, dearest Anna."

"It's too long a story, too long," she said, as if in a dream,

passing her hand over her brow. "And now I must go, I must go."

"No, stop here, talk to me, weep. It will do you good."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"My minutes are numbered. You'll understand some day--to-morrow. Now

I must go."

"Anna, how can I let you go like this? You have come here to be

comforted, and I have treated you shamefully. Forgive me."

"You are not to blame, not in the least."

"But what is it that you are in trouble about, Anna? Who has been

making you miserable, my poor fond soul? Whose fault is it? Who is to

blame? Cesare?"

"No, I am to blame, I only."

"And Cesare--you admit it."

"No."

"Cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and I know it," he exclaimed.

"It is I who am infamous."

"I don't believe you. I should believe no one who said that, Anna."

"I must be infamous, since I alone am unhappy. I must go."

"Will you come back?--to-morrow? Anna, you are so sad, you are in

such distress, I can't let you go."

"No one can detain me, no one."

"Anna, forget that I have spoken to you of love."

"I have forgotten it. Good-bye."

"You musn't go like this. You are too much agitated."

"No, I am calm. Listen, will you do me a favour? You repeated some

verses to me one evening at Sorrento--some French verses--do you

remember?"

"Yes. Baudelaire's '_Harmonie du Soir_,'" he answered, surprised by

her question.

"Have you the volume?"

"Yes."

"Take it, and copy that poem for me. Afterwards I will say good-bye."

He went into his library and brought back _Les Fleurs du Mal_. He

seated himself at his writing-table, and looked at Anna. There was an

expression of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that he faltered, and

asked, "Shall I write?"

She bowed her head. While he was writing the first lines, Anna

turned her back to him. She put her hand into her pocket and brought

forth a little shining object of ivory and steel. He in a low voice

repeated the verse he was writing--"_Valse mélancolique et langoureux

vertige_"--when suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a

little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling.

Anna had shot herself through the heart, and fallen to the floor.

Her little gloved hand held the revolver that she had taken from the

drawer of her husband's desk. Luigi Caracciolo stood rooted to the

carpet, believing that he must be mad.

So died Anna Acquaviva, innocent.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] _Voi_, instead of the more familiar _tu_, which he had previously

employed.

[G] Having hitherto used the formal _voi_, he now uses the intimate

_tu_.

_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.

_London & Edinburgh._

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated

variants. For those words, the variant more frequently used was

retained. In some cases there was no predominant variant. The

hyphenated variant was chosen in those cases.

The name 'Björnstjerne Björnson' was changed to 'Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson'.

Obvious punctuation and printing errors, which were not detected during

the printing of the original book, have been corrected.

The original book did not have a Table of Contents. One was added

after the Introduction.