As a general thing Roberto Montefranco was not a great thinker; he
had not time to be. What with luncheons, horseback rides, calls, and
dinners, his days flew by, and his evenings he passed pleasantly with
his fiancée, Lulu. Then there were tiresome matters to be attended
to, some appointments with his lawyer, contracts to be signed, some
old debts to be settled, to say nothing of preparations for his house
and for the wedding trip. He had barely time even for his half-hour’s
reading and fifteen minutes’ loitering at the door of his café. So he
was never seen absorbed in profound reflection, nor was he ever known
to be engaged in solving some social problem, for Roberto had nothing
of the tragic or heroic in his character. Rather, he was of a serene
temperament, and many envied him for it.
But this afternoon he lay stretched out in an armchair, one leg crossed
over the other, a book in his hand, with the fixed determination of
reading. The book was interesting; yet, new and strange as it may seem,
the reader had become very absent-minded. In fact, he was more than
that; he was nervous and restless. He never turned a page, because
after reading a couple of lines the letters seemed to leave their
printed places, to dance about, become confused, disappear. Roberto had
involuntarily taken a journey into the unknown regions of thought.
“Papa is satisfied, my aunts all have sent me their blessings, my girl
cousins are angry, my friends at the café congratulate me ironically,
my true friends clasp my hand; therefore I am doing well to marry.
I can not deny that Lulu is very pretty; when she fixes her eyes so
full of mischief upon me, when she laughs and shows her little white
teeth, I want to take her charming little head between my hands and
kiss her over and over again. And she has an excellent disposition, a
character of gold, always merry, good-natured, ready for a jest, witty,
full of pranks, never melancholy. We shall agree excellently. I can
not endure serious looks, especially in people I love. It always seems
to me that such looks conceal a secret grief, a grief with which I am
unacquainted, and which I can not alleviate, or of which I am perhaps
the involuntary cause. Sofia, my future sister-in-law, has the faculty
of irritating me with her cold, impassive face. Whenever she appears
my intelligence seems to shrivel up, the smile leaves my lips; and even
should the most beautiful spring sun be shining, for me it turns into a
gray November day. I no longer have the courage to joke even with Lulu;
that Sofia drives all joy away. She may have noticed the unpleasant
impression she makes upon me, for she speaks to me without looking at
me, does not shake hands, answers in the fewest possible words. She has
noticed my dislike for her. Perhaps she is offended by it.
“Lulu always laughs. She is very young. She never says a serious word
to me, and even if she wishes to it always seems as though she were
ridiculing. She loves me, but not madly. To be frank, mine is not
a mad passion either; better so. For my part, I have two theories
firmly established in my mind: an engaged couple should be of like
dispositions, and, secondly, they should never begin with a violent
passion. This is our case, and Lulu and I will be very happy. We shall
take a trip through Italy, but without haste, taking short journeys,
enjoying every comfort, stopping where we please, seeing even the most
insignificant things. We will thus occupy three months; no, that will
not be enough, let us say four months; I shall be glad to get Lulu away
for a certain time from the doleful society of Sofia. But, I ask, is
it natural that that girl should be so serious at her age? She must be
twenty-three. She is not plain. In fact, she has beautiful eyes, and
the carriage of a queen. If she were not so severe she would please.
I wager that she will be an old maid; perhaps that is her secret
torment, perhaps a love affair, some unfortunate love affair--I am
curious to know the cause of her seriousness--I shall ask Lulu when we
are alone--
“Lulu is fond of bonbons, she told me so that second evening I went
to her house. How she nibbles them! How they disappear between her
little red lips, and after a moment what a false air of compunction
she assumes--because there are no more. She is dear, dear, dear! She
confided to me in a low tone that when it thunders she is frightened,
and goes and hides her head among the pillows; that she has always
dreamed of having a gown of black velvet, with a very long train, and
with white lace at the neck and sleeves. She assures me that she shall
be jealous, jealous as a Spaniard, and that she shall buy a little
dagger with a handle inlaid with gold, with which to take vengeance.
She is adorable when she repeats these absurdities to me, with her
childish air of conviction. Even Sofia is forced to smile sometimes,
and how it brightens her face! That Sofia, that Sofia! who will ever
learn to know her!”
The book fell from his knees to the floor, the young man started at the
sound, looked about in surprise, as though unable to recognize himself.
It was actually he, Roberto Montefranco, caught in _flagrante delicto_,
meditating.