Paula suffered Veronika and her maid to put her to bed. She seemed not
to notice them. She was thinking--far away. Out of habit she listened a
moment for the piano above. But all was silent. "He is happy," she said
to herself; "he has gone with his friends. Or perhaps he is up there
living it all over again." And her imagination, touched anew with the
old obstinate insanity, took the road up to his never-seen chamber,
bent over him, and rejoiced with him. "Oh, if I could--" she said; "if
I could! But he will never know how a dying noble lady used to listen
to his playing in the dead of night, and loved him, and left him her
blessing--"
Veronika had no sleep that night. Before day the doctor was summoned.
He remained several hours. At going he drew Veronika aside, and by
signs succeeded at last in procuring from her the package of letters
the Countess had once shown him. He looked at the superscriptions, and
took from among them one "To the Abbé S----."
That evening he brought with him a white-haired old man in priestly
garb, whom Veronika was relieved to hear address her in her native
tongue.
Presently, with muffled footsteps and a frightened, solemn mien, she
led him into the Countess's bedroom, dimly lighted by shaded candles,
and left them long alone together.
Prospero, returning home that night, opened the window wide and stood a
moment looking out at the stars, at peace with life, every desire for
the moment hushed, satisfied. Then he lighted the candles on the piano,
and the faint yellow illumination brought out a hint of color in the
objects around. It showed an ordinary, rather bare room; he lived in
it very little. The littering music and the piano formed its chief
adornment.
He sat down, but for a moment did not touch the keys. He removed the
flower from his coat and smelt it, thinking of Rosina, who had given
it him at the theatre door--Rosina with the broad velvet-faced hat,
the tight silk dress, the diamonds in her ears, and the small basket
of flowers on her arm. She was pretty--oh, pretty! Having thought how
pretty she was, he wisely tossed away her faded favor, determining to
remain cold and prudent. He shook back his hair, as if thereby to free
his mind of her, spread his hands over the ivory keys, and began, as
he loved to do before sleeping, to let his fancies and emotions make
themselves sound.
He played long, losing himself, finding a melodious vesture for his
half-formed dream. The night was very quiet; it came to be very
late without his perceiving it. Suddenly he felt a cool air on his
forehead--he looked up, and paused in his playing, his hands motionless
above the keys, his lips open. He felt that he ought to speak, but
his voice failed to answer his will. He was asking himself in the dim
background of his consciousness how the Countess Paula von Schattenort
had entered his dwelling so noiselessly, and what she might be seeking
there. More clearly he was wondering at her face, strangely still and
white, vaguely woe-begone, astonished, pathetic. He recognized her,
yet she seemed to him altered from the one he sometimes saw on the
balcony and met on the stairs--that object without interest, a woman
not pretty. Perhaps it was the wonderful hair that, shining along her
cheeks like a pale gilded mist, transfigured her. The firm fine braids
that heretofore he had seen always wound in austere simplicity about
her head were undone; the narrowly waved hair floated to her knees;
her face peered wistfully between two shimmering bands of it. She was
clothed in a white garment bordered with dark fur; a heavy rosary hung
about her neck.
She looked at him a long moment with fixed eyes, an expression of
plaintive disillusion, and said nothing.
He tried to ask in what manner he might serve her, but his tongue was
numb.
She turned and looked all about the room, very slowly, as a person
seeking something. Then she looked again at him, silently, with that
same face of disappointment; and her hands, that had been tightly shut
on the golden crucifix appended to her rosary, opened and slipped
softly to her sides. She turned to the door. He rose from his seat, and
without taking his eyes from her, fumbled to lift the candle from its
socket, to light her way; he was awkward in his amazement. He saw her
pass the threshold. In a second he followed her. She was not in the
next room. He passed through the two rooms that separated him from the
door leading to the common stairway. He came to the door; it was as he
had left it, secured for the night. Seized with dismay, in spite of the
thought that she must have lingered behind in the shady embrasure of
a window, he undid the chain and bolt and came out on the landing and
looked, expecting inconsistently to see a white figure vanishing down
the steps. He saw nothing but a faint light cast upon the wall at the
turn of the stairs. He stood hesitating.
In a moment he heard below a sound of weeping; he went down with a
trembling of the knees. On the landing of the _piano nobile_ was the
landlady. She had set her little brass lamp on the last step, and was
crying. The door to the Countess's apartment was wide open, and the
draught from there made the tiny flame flicker and smoke.
"What is it?" said Prospero, in a husky whisper.
"She is dead, the poor lady!" sobbed the _padrona_.
He felt his hair softly rising.