An unusually hot April was burning up the city. Towards evening the
heavens flamed like incandescent metal. The scent of summer, of dust,
of withered grass, made the air almost suffocating.
One evening Regina was visiting the Princess, who two days later was
going to Albano.
"Shall you be there long?" asked the pink-china-headed old gentleman,
in French, making a great effort to speak.
But, as he did not speak at all loud, Madame's big, yellow face
revolved slowly till her good ear was turned in the old gentleman's
direction.
"Beg pardon?"
"Will you stay long at Albano?"
"Three weeks."
"Where will you go afterwards?" continued the other, with a
seriousness almost tragic.
"To Viareggio, Monsieur. And you?"
"I don't know yet. I am still undecided. Perhaps to Vichy. You will
remain in Italy?"
"Probably this year. I am not over well, and I don't wish to do
anything fatiguing. How dreadfully hot it is already! One can't
sleep. I ought to have got out the hair mattresses."
Madame sighed. Monsieur sighed louder. They both seemed extremely
unhappy, she on account of the heat, he because he didn't know what
to do with himself for the summer.
"I'm sure there's going to be an earthquake," said Marianna, by way
of comfort, as she brought them their tea.
The old gentleman, who for some time had been casting tender looks at
Marianna, fixed his little blue eyes on her and said--
"How many cups, Mademoiselle, have you distributed in your life? When
I see you without one in your hand your little figure seems to me
incomplete."
But Mademoiselle was out of humour, and would neither talk nonsense
nor listen to it. Even she was oppressed by the heat. Passing near
Regina, she said, in a stage whisper--
"For every cup of tea I have handed he has lost a lock of his hair!"
But Regina also was cross, and did not listen.
The heat made everybody cross and stupid. Regina, moreover, felt at
the end of her forces; her pride and her dignity were bending like
leaves scorched by the sun. She was anxiously expecting to be joined
by Antonio. Perhaps to-day she would really be given a sign; what
sort of sign she did not know, but she waited. She waited; ashamed of
being in this house, of facing that old woman, who was as impassive
as a deaf sphinx; yet ashamed also of being ashamed.
While she waited her memory was busy. The very smallest sign would
be sufficient now she had gone over the past, and called up with
clearness and intensity each act, each word, which might have an
equivocal signification. To-day the bitter-sweet perfume of lilac
which pervaded the room reminded her of another occasion two years
ago; of words, bitter as the perfume, spoken by herself, and of
Marianna's terrible reply.
"_To be poor in Rome is to be like a beggar gnawing a bone at the
shut door of a palace._"
"_Just so; and presently the rich man's dog comes by and snatches
from the beggar's hand even the bone!_"
Ah! Mademoiselle knew the world! While Regina was recalling the
distressed and ironical look which the Princess had given her that
day, just before her flight, Marianna brought her some tea and began
to tell the misdeeds of a very elegant gentleman who frequented
Madame's receptions.
"They say he has really lived on the creatures," she said, "and when
they can't do any more for him, he flings them away like sucked
lemons."
"So much the worse for them," said Regina. "After all, he's the
strongest and----"
"Ah! I forgot you were a super-woman!" said Marianna, in a low voice.
Then she laughed. "Will you have some more tea?"
Swift and terrible as the thunderbolt came the thought to Regina--
"Marianna knows the secret, and believes that I know it, too, and
consent!"
A flame burned her face. Never did she forget the shame which this
flush caused her. It lasted a moment. Then she looked contemptuously
at Marianna, and remembered that the girl might have spoken without
intention; merely one of her usual insolent follies. Still, all her
pulses had been set throbbing.
"At all costs I must get rid of this incubus," she thought, not
for the first, the second, the hundredth time. To-day she felt that
her trouble, real or imaginary, had come to the crisis, and must be
resolved, either by deliverance or by death.
The old ladies and gentlemen were all gathered round their hostess,
who, whitewashed and wan, seemed in that sparkling circle like a
decaying pearl in a broken setting. They were talking of the suicide
of a Russian personage, a Mæcenas known to all Europe.
One of the speakers, himself a Russian, told of a dinner he had
attended a few days before in Paris, given by artists and noblemen
to the rich suicide, and of all the intrigues and evil diplomacy
connected with that symposium, and the bonds, more or less shameful,
by which its guests were united among themselves.
Regina listened and remembered that she had listened to similar
conversations a hundred times. What struck her was the simplicity
with which the Russian talked, and the eagerness with which the
others listened. No one was abashed; some even gave signs of
approbation, and seemed delighted at hearing a scandal, which, for
the most part, they already knew. It was the way of the world! And
was she to be surprised if one of these wrongs, which, it appeared,
were habitual with all the men and women of this earth, had come
home to herself? For a moment she asked, was she not a fool to be so
disturbed? Then the question horrified her.
She felt herself stifled. The heat of the room, here and there
still decked with furs, gave her really a feeling of oppression and
suffocation. Surely the feline creatures were becoming alive! Their
skins were filling out; they were moving, approaching her! puffing
hot breath in her face, musky and voluptuous scent! They fascinated
her with their glassy eyes, raised their padded paws, slowly, softly;
hugged her, smothered her! Air! air! To free herself, or else to die!
Another moment, and she, Regina--erring, perhaps, but not impure,
who, on the banks of her native river, had dreamed of all in life
which is worthy to support life--another moment, and she would die of
asphyxia!
Instinctively she got up and made her way to the marble terrace,
whence a stair led to the garden. A man was working at a round plot
like a tart, edged with velvet grass and patterned with bedding
plants. Everything was soft and artificial in the little green and
flowery garden, strewn with wistaria petals. The sunset light flushed
the garland of white roses which hung from the laurel above the
little gate. At this hour the little gate was shut.
The hot, over-scented air of the garden had not yet brought Regina
any relief, when she saw the gate open and admit her husband. A
sanguinous veil clouded her eyes. For a moment she could not see
the figure advancing towards her. Antonio mounted the stair quite
quietly, stopped at her side, and asked--
"What are you doing here?"
He was smart as usual, but not in visiting costume.
"Why are you dressed like this?" said Regina, touching his sleeve.
"There is such a crowd of people, and it's so hot. Don't go in! They
haven't seen you, and I am just going!"
"Wait one moment," he returned, tranquilly. "Why are you going?"
"At least don't enter this way, Antonio!" she cried, excitedly.
"But why not?" he repeated, opening the glass door.
Regina remained on the terrace, looking at the gardener without
seeing him. Her suspicion was monstrous folly! A guilty man would
not act as at this moment Antonio had acted. Yet no! Immediately she
reflected that if he were guilty he would naturally behave just as he
had behaved--pretending not to understand, even if he did understand,
what was passing in her soul. But no! Again, no! If he were guilty
he would have pretended better. He would not have come in familiarly
by the garden gate. He would not have allowed himself the liberty,
knowing his wife here, in the _other woman's_ house. Yet she was
aware that the most astute delinquents pretend sometimes to forget,
and commit imprudences just in order to mislead suspicion.
But what startled her at the moment was the perception that now
she held Antonio not only guilty, but aware of her suspicion, and
resolved to continue the deception.
She went back into the drawing-room, where the discussion of the
foreigner's suicide was still going on. It seemed to her tiresome,
provincial gossip.
Marianna gave Antonio tea, and while he nibbled a yellow biscuit with
teeth even as a child's, he also gave his opinion of the tragedy.
Madame bent forward to listen, and fanned herself with a little
Japanese fan, which seemed made of polished glass. The rings on her
tiny hands sparkled in the light, which grew ever fainter and rosier.
Nothing occurred. There was still no sign, no revelation of the
secret. Antonio did not take much notice of Madame, and she, more
drooping and impassive than usual, turned her good ear to every one
who spoke, now and then replying politely. But in her metallic eyes
shone the vague and languid splendour of thoughts far away in matters
of her own.
After a while Regina rose. Antonio followed her. They took leave
and went away. Marianna ran after them to the ante-room, and kissed
Regina on both cheeks.
"Me also?" said Antonio, offering his cheek.
"You to-morrow," she replied, carrying on the jest. Then she said,
seriously, "Come about seven, as we've got to go out first. Ah!" she
continued, following them to the door, "that man has been back. He
offers 300 _lire_ or a new fur. But Madame is firm in demanding her
own; she says he'll have to be summoned."
"Well, we'll have him summoned," said Antonio. "But was the old fur a
good one?"
"Why, it cost 900 _lire_!"
"We'll see about it. _Au revoir!_"
"Good-bye. Are you coming to Albano, Regina?"
"If Madame invites us," said Antonio, and they went out.
Regina has said neither yes nor no. They walked as far as Piazza
dell' Indipendenza in silence. Then Regina raised her head and asked--
"What was that about a fur?"
"Oh, good Lord! don't speak of it! For a whole month I've heard of
nothing else. She sent a skin to the furrier to be repaired, and it
seems to have got changed or something----"
"Are you going to Albano?"
"If she invites us--some Sunday."
"I'm not going," said Regina, stoutly.
"Why not?"
"Because--it's too hot," she said, dropping her voice.
"It won't be hot there. She has taken a villa on the edge of the
lake. Such roses on the terrace! When they drop they fall straight
into the water."
Regina knew all about it, for he had chosen the villa himself, and
had described it to his wife a few days ago. They walked on without
speaking further. The street lamps burned yellow and dismal in the
rosy twilight, and their dull flame increased Regina's melancholy.
Her foolish project of spying upon Antonio in the night recurred to
her. She saw herself a flitting shadow under that yellow and dismal
light, shadowed herself by some night prowler in search of adventure.
But suddenly she raised her head proudly, saying to herself--
"No, never again! This is the last time I shall go to that house; and
neither shall he go there again. It is time to bring it all to an
end!"
When she had reached her room, she took off her silk jacket and flung
it on the bed.
"Well! it _is_ hot! What a summer we are going to have! Oh, how
horrid Rome is in the summer! And _they_ are already going away.
Quite right, the poor delicate things! But we--yes, gnawing our
bones--if they're left to us----"
"What's that you're muttering?" asked Antonio, but went on, without
waiting for an answer, "Hasn't Caterina come in yet?"
Regina undressed, flinging down her things and inveighing against the
rich, great people, who abandon Rome at its first heat.
Antonio stood looking out of the window. An angry thought flashed
through her mind, the worst of the perverse thoughts which had
destroyed her peace.
"He's no longer displeased when I am cross. He's afraid of provoking
me to a burst of rage. He guesses that I _know_, and believes that
I'll bear it--up to a certain point."
"Shut the window!" she said, irritated.
He shut the window, patiently.
"I'm going for the _Avanti_,"[9] he said, moving away; "make haste!
it's half-past seven."
[9] An evening paper.
Left alone, Regina experienced a sort of crisis, as on the evening
two years ago when she had been to the Grand Hotel.
"Ah!" she thought, putting on her home evening dress; "The moment
he comes in I'll say to him, 'It's time to end this business! I am
moving away--in reality this time! I don't wish you to visit her
at Albano. I don't wish you ever again to go to her house. I will
never go to it myself. End it, Antonio! End it! end it! Don't you
see I am gnawing my heart out? Or is it that you do see and don't
care? Why don't you care? At least tell me why! Why do you act like
this? I don't know how to bear all these superfluities, these silk
petticoats, chiffons, which you have bought me with that money.
There! I fling them all from me--all! all! A garret is enough for
me, a sack to dress myself in, black bread--but _honour_, Antonio,
honour, honour!' Ah, they rob us even of our honour, even of that one
gnawed bone! But you'll have to reckon with me, Madame! old viscous
moon, blind and asthmatic personification of nocturnal vampires!
Wrapped in your furs, isn't it enough that you've had an easy life,
a soft life, which has corrupted you, body and soul, but you want
pleasure also in your old age? You and your old, rich friends, taking
advantage of the poor, of the poor and the young, who have been made
tender by tears, by weariness and grief, just as you have been made
soft by idleness and satiety!"
"All this rhetoric is very fine," she thought, presently, putting her
clothes in order, "but the world belongs to the strong, and I--I am
one of the weak. I am weak because I reason too much, while _those_
people don't reason at all; they only enjoy. That deaf old witch
has never _thought_. She has stolen my Antonio, and I--I have been
torturing myself for a whole month thinking whether it is delicate
to say to my husband, 'End it! End it!' But I will speak to-night!
And he will retort, saying it was all done for me--to give me those
things I demanded; and then--then what will happen? No; he won't
reproach me at all! He isn't capable of it. We shall forgive each
other. And then--what will happen? Is it true we can begin a new
life? Yes; even a ruined house can be rebuilt. But it isn't the same
house, and one can't live in it without constantly thinking of the
horror of the ruin."
Antonio delayed in returning. The nurse also delayed. She was out of
temper at present and inclined to take liberties, because she was
soon to be dismissed. It was almost night. Regina gazed from the
window, vaguely anxious about her child. Twilight still lingered in
the lonely street, grass-grown like the streets of a deserted city.
The gardens were odoriferous with roses. A few stars twinkled on the
still blood-stained veil of the heavens.
And, notwithstanding her proud resolve, Regina was overcome with
grief at the thought of abandoning that poetic street, every blade of
whose grass had known the illusion of her happiness.
But she kept silence on this evening also. How could she help it?
Caterina would not go to bed; she wanted to stay with her papa,
whose golden moustache, beautiful eyes, beautiful scented hair, she
admired prodigiously. Did Caterina see that her papa was beautiful?
That cannot be known. But certainly she looked at his attractive
countenance with great pleasure, and seemed to find special delight
in touching the shaven face of _Il Papaino_ with her little
peach-blossom cheek. Antonio sang his favourite rhyme--
"Mousey doesn't care for cream,
Mousey wants to marry the Queen;
If the King won't let her go,
Mousey'll break his bones, you know."
Each time he repeated those lines Regina remembered, as in a troubled
dream, the evening of her arrival in Rome. But to-night Caterina
laughed and screamed with mad delight, and admired her papa more
than ever; and then they talked together of so many things, of such
secret things, comprehensible only to themselves! What could Regina
do? Deprive Antonio, who had been working all day, of the pleasure
of talking to his baby, wrest the little one from him, and send her
away? She was not so cruel. When at last Caterina's big eyes became
languid with sleep, and all her little body relaxed and sank, heavy
and sweet like a ripe fruit, Antonio said--
"Now I am going out for a little."
What could Regina do? Say to him--
"No; stay. I wish to tell you the horrible things I am thinking of
you----?"
It was impossible. He had every right to go out for a little, at
least in the evening, after a whole day of fatigue.
He went out, and Regina sat down and read the terrible column of the
_Avanti_ called "What goes on in the world."
* * * * *
Madame Makuline left Rome two days later, but Antonio still went
daily to the villa to see after the letters and dispatch certain
affairs.
On Sunday he showed Regina the key, and told her the old servant left
in charge of the house had asked leave of absence.
"At last we are proprietors of a villa," he said, joking.
Then Regina was assailed by a temptation. In vain, for some minutes,
she tried to put it from her.
"Let us go to the villa," she proposed.
Antonio not only accepted, but seemed delighted. Could he be so
cynical?
She put on a soft, white dress, with big, flopping sleeves, in which
she looked very young and beautiful with the modern beauty which
lies less in line than in expression. The dress was new, and Antonio
admired it to her satisfaction. Notwithstanding the internal current
of suspicion and resentment which continually fretted her soul,
she could not do without pretty frocks. Sometimes she even felt a
morbid pleasure in spending _that_ money on objects of ornament and
superfluity. She had resumed minute care of her complexion, her
hair, her nails. She wasted half-hours in rubbing her face with oil
of almonds, in dressing her hair to the fashion. What did she mean
by it? To please Antonio, or to please others? She did not know,
but, perceiving she was no longer angry with herself for her vain
refinements, she questioned whether her moral sense were not growing
daily weaker and weaker.
Scarcely had they started for the villa when a puff of contemptuous
wind ruffled her hair and blew the powder from her face. It was a
burning afternoon; the trees trembled at the breath of the hot wind;
the Piazza, dazzling in the sunshine, seemed vaster even than usual.
A veil of dust obscured the distance of the streets. The east wind
was raging, its hot breath pregnant with malign suggestions.
Their heads bent, holding on their hats, Antonio and Regina took
their way, and they laughed a little and squabbled a little. Arrived
in front of the villa, they looked round like thieves. The street was
deserted, swept by the wind; leaves of roses and geraniums fluttered
to the pavement; a hot perfume of lilies rose from the garden. They
seemed in an enchanted city, new, unknown, not yet inhabited.
When Antonio unlocked the polished door, Regina felt as if entering
her own house, long dreamed of, attained by magic. Stepping into the
vestibule, cool as the bed of the river, seemed like stepping into a
bath. The wolves were covered with cloths, as if they had disguised
themselves for fun in their mistress's absence. A small marble head,
pallid behind a motionless palm-tree, faced the intruders with
smiling lips. Regina walked softly by force of habit, and removed her
hat before the veiled mirror. Then she remembered they were alone,
and put the hat on the marble head with a laugh.
"Hush!" whispered her husband. "Don't make so much noise."
"Who is there to hear us?"
He opened a door. She followed him. They crossed the saloons and
entered the dining-room. Antonio walked on tip-toe with a certain
diffidence. He would not let Regina laugh.
"Aren't we here to play at being proprietors?" she asked. "Let's see
if we can make some tea!"
"No, no," said Antonio. "I don't want the caretaker to find out we've
been here. But stop--there should be some Madeira in the sideboard.
Aha!"
They found the bottle and tasted it. Then they put everything back
in its place. They were like children. Antonio became merry, and,
without making a noise, began also to amuse himself. They returned
to the drawing-room, and Regina partly opened the shutters. A green
light illuminated one corner. Regina pretended to be holding a
reception, mimicked the voice of the pretty blind lady, then lolled
on Madame's favourite sofa. It was covered with grey fur, and
suggested an immense sleeping cat.
In her soft dress, her hair falling loose on her forehead, her eyes
burning, and it seemed artificially darkened, she looked, in the
green penumbra, a real, great lady, _blasée_, lost in an unwholesome
dream.
Antonio meantime tried to open the door which led to the terrace and
the garden.
"Wait a bit," said Regina. "Let's look round up-stairs first. Have
you ever been up-stairs?"
"I? Never."
"Well, come now. Leave that door locked. Come here. I want to tell
you something!" she said, childishly.
"What is it? I'm looking for the key."
As if guessing her idea, he did not come to the lure.
Then she felt blaze up the wicked doubt which persecuted her. Yes, in
this room, perhaps on this very divan, Antonio had stained his lips
with hateful kisses!
She bit her lips to repress a shudder, then rose and hastened to the
next room.
"Let's go in there. Never mind that door."
He crossed the room and joined her. Cat-like, Regina threw herself on
his breast and kissed him. Illusion of the light? It seemed to her
that Antonio's face became green, and she believed she had intuition
of the drama evolving in his soul. Yes! he must at this moment be
remembering something nauseous! an embrace, a kiss, which had stained
his soul with infamy! Here, in this place to kiss the lips of his
wife must be castigation for him!
Her delirium was increasing.
"Kiss me!" she imposed upon her husband, fixing on him eyes of tragic
flame, and drawing him towards the divan. He certainly resisted; but
he kissed her, his lips still scented with the wine. Then Regina, on
fire with the madness of her doubt, believed the moment had come for
tearing the vile secret from those lips, whose kisses gave her mortal
anguish in this place where every object must remind Antonio of his
miserable error.
But she was unable to formulate her horrible demand.
Afterwards they penetrated into the study and the library, where
Antonio was accustomed to spend what he called his hours of service.
It was a real library, with a thousand volumes artistically bound.
Madame had shown Regina some ancient books, an illuminated codex,
Ariosto's autograph, said to be genuine, some letters from celebrated
authors, amongst them three signed Georges Sand. In spite of her
pre-occupation, Regina amused herself looking through the glass of
the bookshelves, as the street boys peer into the shop windows.
Meantime Antonio glanced at the letters laid on the writing-table at
which he was accustomed to dispatch the Princess's correspondence.
Regina presently made her way into the little adjoining room,
a boudoir where Madame sometimes dined. Antonio followed. They
opened the door and found themselves in a wide ante-chamber, which
communicated with the garden. A back staircase led to the first
floor. But all doors were locked except that of the bath-room. A
little water, blue with soap, had been left in the bath.
Regina was watching Antonio, but he moved with hesitation, and she
thought him unfamiliar with the house.
"I want to cross that bridge which connects the two parts of the
villa," said Regina, shaking the lobby doors.
But everything was locked, so they descended again and went to the
kitchen. Tufts of verdure almost blocked the barred window. Still,
the golden afternoon light penetrated at the top. A background of
flower-garden was discernible, and rose petals had fallen on the
shining pavement. A marble table was splendid in the centre of the
kitchen.
"It's like a church!" said Antonio, merry again. "Suppose we dance a
little?"
"It's finer than our drawing-room," sighed Regina. "Oh! do be quiet!"
But he whirled her away with him round the table.
A magnificent black cat, asleep on the dresser, raised his
great, round head, opened his orange eyes, and looked at the two
liberty-taking people without moving. Regina shuddered, however.
"How silly we are!" she said. "Suppose the man were to come in and
find us here? I declare I hear steps in the garden! Let us escape!"
But Antonio put on the cook's apron, pretended to cook, and,
servant-fashion, spoke against the mistress. He suggested that she
was a spy of the Russian Government. Regina listened and laughed, but
reflected that in this kitchen was perhaps known and discussed that
other secret of which she had not been able to rend the unclean veil.
She resented Antonio's gaiety, and an accident increased her
ill-humour. The cat was still watching, now and then giving an
ostentatious yawn. She tried to stroke him, stretching her hand over
the dresser. But the cat sprang to a ledge higher up, and upset
a flask. Big drops of oil, thick and yellow, rained on her white
raiment, spotting it irreparably. She nearly cried with annoyance;
foolish words came unconsciously from her mouth.
"Even my dress gets stained in this horrible house!"
Antonio listened, but seemed not to understand. He found a bottle of
benzine, and helped Regina to clean her dress, then put everything
back in its place, threw his arm round her waist, and made her run
with him up the stair, careless of her stumbles, deaf to all protests
and reproaches.
Thus they entered the garden, and Regina recovered her calm. The
sinking sun gilded half the expanse, leaving the rest in deep shadow.
The wind passed high up over the tops of the laurels, which were
garlanded with white roses. From time to time a rain of rose-leaves,
of lime-blossom, of wistaria, circled down through the hot air and
fell on the paths. Regina and her husband sat in a green corner close
to a hermes, on which was an archaic head. Black, hard, epicene, it
had a complacent and sarcastic smile.
"He thinks us a pair of lovers," said Regina, remarking the
expression. "No, my dear fellow, I assure you we are enemies!"
"And why?" asked Antonio, coldly.
Then a recollection shot through Regina's mind.
"Do you remember that day in the woods, two years ago, when you--had
come for me? There were so many blue butterflies, just like these
wistaria blossoms----"
She laughed meaningly. Did he remember? And the remembrance of that
hour of pleasure passed in the mystery of the damp, hot woods the
day after his coming to Regina's home, after her flight and their
reconciliation, seemed to reawaken him to passion.
The childish gaiety which had animated him a few minutes before
passed into a nervous tenderness, and this time it was he who sought
the lips of his wife in a kiss, which reminded her of his kisses
_then_.
And her doubts tormented her more than ever.
At sunset-time they went back into the house, but they did not yet
go away. They wandered through the rooms abandoning themselves to
childish extravagances. They ran about in the dark, and Regina,
wailing over her dress, amused herself spitefully moving the
furniture which Antonio put back into order.
Now and then they renewed their lover-like caresses. The warmth of
the spring sunset came through the closed shutters and set Antonio's
blood on fire. Regina found a perverse pleasure in enjoying the
tenderness of her young husband there where she suspected he had
stained the purity of his love.
Turbid poison was boiling in her soul. When Antonio kissed her, and
trembled under her unaccustomed kisses, she fixed wild eyes on the
dark corners, on the opaque brilliance of the veiled mirrors, trying
to penetrate into the secrets of their vanished reflections. It
seemed to her that the phantasm of "the old moon," of the purchaser
of kisses, was there in the depth of some looking-glass, gnawing
herself with jealousy and rage at the sight of Antonio giving his
wife caresses, a single one of which all her millions was not
sufficient to buy.
Thus Regina thought to take her revenge, but a flood of disgust
rose more and more bitter from the depths of her heart. Disgust at
herself and disgust at Antonio! How cynical must he be if he could
thus disport himself in this place which knew his sin! or, if he were
innocent, how contemptible if, with the passivity of a weak man, he
could thus violate the house of his benefactress merely to amuse the
ill-regulated, hysterical woman, who that day was concealing herself
under the white dress and fashionable coiffure of Regina, his wife.
At the bottom of her soul, however, well at the bottom, beyond
all consciousness, in its darkest, most mysterious depths, Regina
cherished a bitter satisfaction in recognising how utterly this man
belonged to herself. Always and everywhere, even in error, it was
she who dominated him. And, because of this, notwithstanding all
resentment, all disgust, even when she felt she no longer loved her
husband, even when she despised herself, thinking her soul stained
like her dress, corrupted in the soft air, the half-light, the
poisoned fragrance of that house, where, it seemed, "anything might
happen," she felt infinite pity for Antonio. And on this pity she
lived.