"Sit down, Loretta, and let me talk to you."
She stopped, looked at me in a dazed sort of way, as if she was trying
to focus my face so as to recall me to her memory, and said in a
determined way:
"No, let me pass. It's too late for all that, Signore. I am--"
"But wait until you hear me."
"I will hear nothing until I find Francesco."
"You must not go near him. Get into the gondola and let Luigi and me
take you home."
A dry laugh rose to her lips. "Home! There is no home any more. See! My
ring is gone! Francesco is the one I want--now---NOW! He knows I am
coming,--I sent him word. Don't hold me, Signore,--don't touch me!"
She was gone before I could stop her, her long, striding walk
increasing almost to a run, her black shawl swaying about her limbs as
she hurried toward her old home at the end of the quay. Luigi started
after her, but I called him back. Nothing could be done until her fury,
or her agony, had spent itself. These volcanoes are often short-lived.
We looked after her until she had reached the door and had flung
herself across the threshold. Then I sent Luigi for my easel and began
work.
The events that have made the greatest impression upon me all my life
have been those which have dropped out of the sky,--the unexpected, the
incomprehensible,--the unnecessary--the fool things--the damnably
idiotic things.
First we heard a cry that caused Luigi to drop canvas and easel, and
sent us both flying down the quay toward the rookery. It came from
Loretta's mother;--she was out on the sidewalk tearing her hair;
calling on God; uttering shriek after shriek. The quay and bridge were
a mass of people--some looking with staring eyes, the children hugging
their mothers' skirts. Two brawny fishermen were clearing the way to
the door. Luigi and I sprang in behind them, and entered the house.
On the stone floor of the room lay the body of Francesco, his head
stretched back, one hand clutching the bosom of his shirt. Against the
wall stood Loretta; not a quiver on her lips; ghastly white; calm,--the
least excited person in the room.
"And you killed him!" I cried.
"Yes,--he thought I came to kiss him--I did, WITH THIS!" and she tossed
a knife on the table.
The days that followed were gray days for Luigi and me. All the light
and loveliness were gone from my canal.
They took Loretta to the prison next the Bridge of Sighs and locked her
up in one of the mouldy cells below the water line--dark, dismal
pockets where, in the old days, men died of terror.
Vittorio, Luigi, and I met there the next morning. I knew the chief
officer, and he had promised me an interview. Vittorio was
crying,--rubbing his knuckles in his eyes,--utterly broken up and
exhausted. He and Luigi had spent the night together. An hour before,
the two had stood at Francesco's bedside in the hospital of San Paulo.
Francesco was still alive, and with Father Garola bending over him had
repeated his confession to them both. He was madly in love with her, he
moaned, and had spread the report hoping that Vittorio would cast her
off, and, having no other place to go, Loretta would come back to him.
At this Vittorio broke into a rage and would have strangled the dying
man had not the attendant interfered. All this I learned from Luigi as
we waited for the official.
"This is a frightful ending to a happy life--" I began when the officer
appeared. "Let them talk to each other for just a few moments. It can
do no harm."
The official shook his head. "It is against orders, Signore, I cannot.
He can see her when she is brought up for examination."
"They will both have lost their senses by that time," I pleaded. "Can't
you think of some way? I have known her from a child. Perhaps an order
from headquarters might be of some use." We were standing, at the time,
in a long corridor ending in a door protected by an iron grating. This
led to the underground cells.
The chief fastened his eyes on me for an instant, turned abruptly,
called to an attendant, gave an order in a low voice and, with the
words to Vittorio--"You are not to speak to her, remember," motioned
the sobbing man toward the grating. Luigi and I followed.
She came slowly out of the shadows, first the drawn face peering ahead,
as if wondering why she had been sent for, then the white crumpled
dress, and then the dark eyes searching the gloom of the corridor.
Vittorio had caught sight of her and was clinging to the grating, his
body shaking, his tears blinding him.
The girl gave a half-smothered cry, darted forward and covered
Vittorio's hands with her own. Some whispered word must have followed,
for the old light broke over her face and she would have cried out for
joy had not Luigi cautioned her. For a moment the two stood with
fingers intertwined, their bowed foreheads kept apart by the cold
grating. Then the boy, straining his face between the bars, as if to
reach her lips, loosened one hand, took something from his pocket and
slipped it over her finger.
It was her wedding ring.