Two days after this, Andrea was lunching with Galeazzo Secinaro at a
table in the Caffé di Roma. It was a hot morning. The place was almost
empty; the waiters nodded drowsily among the buzzing flies.
'And so,' the bearded prince went on, 'knowing that she had a fancy for
strange and out-of-the-way situations, I had the courage to----'
He was relating in the crudest terms the extremely audacious means by
which he had at last succeeded in overcoming Lady Heathfield's
resistance. He exhibited neither reserve nor scruples, omitting no
single detail, and praising the acquisition to the connoisseur. He only
broke off, from time to time, to put his fork into a piece of juicy red
meat, or to empty a glass of red wine. His whole bearing was expressive
of robust health and strength.
Andrea Sperelli lit a cigarette. In spite of all his efforts, he could
not bring himself to swallow a mouthful of food, and with the wine
Secinaro poured out for him, he seemed to be drinking poison.
There came a moment at last, when the prince, in spite of his
obtuseness, had a qualm of doubt, and he looked sharply at Elena's
former lover. Except his want of appetite, Andrea gave no outward sign
of inward agitation; with the utmost calm he puffed clouds of smoke into
the air, and smiled his habitual, half-ironical smile, at his jocund
companion.
The prince continued: 'She is coming to see me to-day for the first
time.'
'To you--to-day?'
'Yes, at three o'clock.'
The two men looked at their watches.
'Shall we go?' asked Andrea.
'Let us,' assented Galeazzo rising. 'We can go up the Via de' Condotti
together. I want to get some flowers. As you know all about it, tell
me--what flowers does she like best?'
Andrea laughed. An abominable answer was on the tip of his tongue, but
he restrained himself and replied unmoved--
'Roses, at one time.'
In front of the Barcaccia they parted.
At that hour the Piazza di Spagna had the deserted look of high summer.
Some workmen were repairing a main water-pipe, and a heap of earth dried
by the sun threw up clouds of dust in the hot breath of the wind. The
stairway of the Trinità gleamed white and deserted.
Slowly, slowly, Andrea went up, standing still every two or three steps,
as if he were dragging a terrible weight after him. He went into his
rooms and threw himself on his bed, where he remained till a quarter to
three. At a quarter to three he got up and went out. He turned into the
Via Sistina, on through the Via Quattro Fontane, passed the Palazzo
Barberini and stopped before a book-stall to wait for three o'clock. The
bookseller, a little wrinkled, dried-up old man, like a decrepit
tortoise, offered him books, taking down his choicest volumes one by
one, and spreading them out under his eyes, speaking all the time in an
insufferable nasal monotone. Three o'clock would strike directly; Andrea
looked at the titles of the books, keeping an eye on the gates of the
palace, while the voice of the bookseller mingled confusedly with the
loud thumping of his heart.
A lady passed through the gates, went down the street towards the
piazza, got into a cab, and drove away through the Via del Tritone.
Andrea went home. There he threw himself once more on his bed, and
waited till Maria should come, keeping himself in a state of such
complete immobility, that he seemed not to be suffering any more.
At five Maria came.
'Do you know,' she said, panting, 'I can stay with you the whole
evening--till to-morrow. It will be our first and last night of love. I
am going on Tuesday.'
She sobbed despairingly, and clung to him, her lips pressed convulsively
to his.
'Don't let me see the light of another day--kill me!' she moaned.
Then, catching sight of his discomposed face, 'You are suffering?' she
exclaimed. 'You too--you think we shall never meet again?'
He had almost insuperable difficulty in speaking, in answering her. His
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, the words failed him. He had an
instinctive desire to hide his face from those observant eyes, to avoid
her questions at all cost. He was neither capable of consoling her nor
of practising fresh deceptions.
'Hush!' he whispered in a choking, almost irrecognisable voice.
Crouching at her feet, he laid his head in her lap and remained like
that for a long time without speaking, while she laid her tender hands
upon his temples and felt the wild, irregular beating of his arteries.
She realised that he was suffering fiercely, and in his pain forgot all
thought of her own, grieving now only for his grief--only for him.
Presently he rose, and clasped her with such mad vehemence to him that
she was frightened.
'What has come to you! What is it?' she cried, trying to look in his
eyes, to discover the reason of his sudden frenzy. But he only buried
his face deeper in her bosom, her neck, her hair--anywhere out of sight.
All at once, she struggled free of his embrace, her whole form convulsed
with horror, her face ghastly and distraught as if she had at that
moment torn herself from the arms of Death.
That name! That name!--She had heard that name!
A deep and awful silence fell upon her soul, and in it there suddenly
opened one of those great gulfs into which the whole universe seems to
be hurled at the touch of one thought. She heard nothing more. Andrea
might writhe and supplicate and despair as he would--in vain.
She heard nothing. Some instinct directed her actions. She found her
things and put them on.
Andrea lay upon the floor, sobbing, frenzied, mad.
He was conscious that she was preparing to leave the room.
'Maria! Maria!
He listened.
'Maria!'
He only heard the sound of the door closing behind her--she was gone.