'In the chapel.'
I turned on my heel, and passed through the rooms, one after another,
till I came to the chapel door. I pushed it open and entered. A dim
light came through the painted windows, and I could hardly see. In the
centre were two bodies covered with a cloth, and their heads were
lighted by the yellow gleam of candles. At their feet knelt an old man,
praying. It was Fabio.
I advanced and drew back the cloth; and I fell on my knees. Giulia
looked as if she were sleeping. I had so often leant over her, watching
the regular heaving of the breast, and sometimes I had thought her
features as calm and relaxed as if she were dead. But now the breast
would no more rise and fall, and its wonderful soft whiteness was
disfigured by a gaping wound. Her eyes were closed and her lips half
parted, and the only difference from life was the fallen jaw. Her face
was very pale; the rich waving hair encircled it as with an aureole.
I looked at him, and he, too, was pale, and his fair hair contrasted
wonderfully with hers. He looked so young!
Then, as I knelt there, and the hours passed slowly, I thought of all
that had happened, and I tried to understand. The dim light from the
window gradually failed, and the candles in the darkness burnt out more
brightly; each was surrounded by a halo of light, and lit up the dead
faces, throwing into deeper night the rest of the chapel.
Little by little I seemed to see into the love of these two which had
been so strong, that no ties of honour, faith, or truth had been able to
influence it. And this is what I imagined, trying to console myself.
* * * * *
When she was sixteen, I thought, they married her to an old man she had
never seen, and she met her husband's cousin, a boy no older than
herself. And the love started and worked its way. But the boy lived on
his rich cousin's charity; from him he had received a home and
protection and a thousand kindnesses; he loved against his will, but he
loved all the same. And she, I thought, had loved like a woman,
passionately, thoughtless of honour and truth. In the sensual violence
of her love she had carried him away, and he had yielded. Then with
enjoyment had come remorse, and he had torn himself away from the
temptress and fled.
I hardly knew what had happened when she was left alone, pining for her
lover. Scandal said evil things.... Had she, too, felt remorse and tried
to kill her love, and had the attempt failed? And was it then she flung
herself into dissipation to drown her trouble? Perhaps he told her he
did not love her, and she in despair may have thrown herself in the arms
of other lovers. But he loved her too strongly to forget her; at last he
could not bear the absence and came back. And again with enjoyment came
remorse, and, ashamed, he fled, hating himself, despising her.
The years passed by, and her husband died. Why did he not come back to
her? Had he lost his love and was he afraid? I could not understand....
Then she met me. Ah, I wondered what she felt. Did she love me? Perhaps
his long absence had made her partly forget him, and she thought he had
forgotten her. She fell in love with me, and I--I loved her with all my
heart. I knew she loved me then; she must have loved me! But he came
back. He may have thought himself cured, he may have said that he could
meet her coldly and indifferently. Had I not said the same? But as they
saw one another the old love burst out, again it burnt them with
consuming fire, and Giulia hated me because I had made her faithless to
the lover of her heart.
* * * * *
The candles were burning low, throwing strange lights and shadows on the
faces of the dead.
* * * * *
Poor fool! His love was as powerful as ever, but he fought against it
with all the strength of his weak will. She was the Evil One to him;
she took his youth from him, his manhood, his honour, his strength; he
felt that her kisses degraded him, and as he rose from her embrace he
felt vile and mean. He vowed never to touch her again, and every time he
broke the vow. But her love was the same as ever--passionate, even
heartless. She cared not if she consumed him as long as she loved him.
For her he might ruin his life, he might lose his soul. She cared for
nothing; it was all and all for love.
He fled again, and she turned her eyes on me once more. Perhaps she felt
sorry for my pain, perhaps she fancied my love would efface the
remembrance of him. And we were married. Ah! now that she was dead I
could allow her good intentions. She may have intended to be faithful to
me; she may have thought she could truly love and honour me. Perhaps she
tried; who knows? But love--love cares not for vows. It was too strong
for her, too strong for him. I do not know whether she sent for him, or
whether he, in the extremity of his passion, came to her; but what had
happened so often happened again. They threw everything to the winds,
and gave themselves over to the love that kills....
The long hours passed as I thought of these things, and the candles were
burnt to their sockets.
At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard Fabio's voice.
'Master, it is nearly morning.'