From the open door of the alcove-room camevoices now commanding, now questioning, but for an hour and a half no one could have asserted that they had heard Luisa's voice. From time to time half-frightened, almost happy exclamations were heard. Some one in there had thought they perceived a movement, a breath, the glow of life. Then all who were outside would press forward. Uncle Piero would turn his face towards the door, and only at such moments would his expression become slightly troubled. Alas! Each time he saw the others turn slowly away, in heartbroken silence. It was past five o'clock now, and as it continued to rain the light had begun to fade.
Finally, at half-past five, Luisa's voice was heard. She gave a loud and terrible cry, which froze the blood in the veins of all. The doctor's voice answered in accents of eager protest. It was whispered that he had made a gesture which said plainly: "It is hopeless now, let us desist," but at her cry he had once more renewed his efforts.
The monotonous lament that the fine rain sent in through all the open windows made the stillness of the house seem more sepulchral than ever. The hall and the corridor were growing dark, and the pale candle-light from the alcove-room seemed brilliant by contrast. People began to go away silently and on tiptoe, one shadow after another, and presently steps and hushed voices and the beat of heavy boots were heard on the pavement of the street below. Cia went softly towards her master, and asked him in awhisper if he would not eat something. He silenced her by an imperious gesture.
After seven o'clock, when all outsiders had left save Toni Gall, Ismaele, the Professor, Ester, and three or four women who were in the alcove-room, long, low groans, which seemed hardly human, broke the silence. The doctor came into the hall. It was now quite dark, and he knocked against a chair. "Is the engineer here?" he asked aloud. "Yes, sir," Toni Gall replied, and went for a candle. The engineer neither spoke nor moved.
Toni Gall soon returned with a candle and Dr. Aliprandi—whom I am happy to recall here as a frank and upright man, possessed of a fine intellect and a noble heart—approached the sofa where Uncle Piero sat.
"Engineer Ribera," said he with tears in his eyes, "it is time for you to do something now."
"For me to do something?" said Uncle Piero, raising his eyes.
"Yes. We must at least try to get her away. You must come and speak a word. You are like a father to her. At such moments as these it is a father's place to speak."
"Let my master alone," Cia grumbled. "He can't do these things. It would just be making him miserable to no purpose."
Now pitying voices and kisses mingled with the groans.
The engineer pressed his clenched fists upon thesofa, and remained motionless for a moment, with bowed head. Then he rose, not without difficulty, and said to the doctor:
"Must I go alone?"
"Do you wish me to be present?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Our efforts may be of no avail. I should not wish to force her, but we must, at least, make an attempt."
The doctor dismissed the women who were still in the alcove-room; then, standing in the doorway, he turned to the engineer and motioned to him to come in.
"Donna Luisa," said he gently, "here is your uncle, who is coming to beseech you——"
The old man staggered as he came forward, although his face was composed. He advanced a few steps and then stopped. Luisa was seated upon the bed with her dead baby in her arms, holding her tight, kissing her face and neck, and uttering long, heart-rending groans as she pressed her lips to the little body.
"Yes, yes, yes," she was saying, with almost a smile of tenderness in her voice. "It is your uncle, dear, your uncle, who is coming to see his little treasure, his little Maria, his little Missipipì, who loves him so much! Yes, yes, yes!"
"Luisa," said Uncle Piero, "you must control yourself. Everything that could be done has been done. Now come with me—don't remain here any longer—come with me."
"Uncle, Uncle!" cried Luisa, in a voice full of tenderness but without looking towards him, while she pressed the little dead body to her breast and rocked backwards and forwards. "Come here! Come here to your Maria! Come! Come to us, for you are our uncle, our dear uncle! No, dear, no, dear! Our uncle will not forsake us."
Uncle Piero shuddered. His grief overwhelmed him for a moment, and wrenched a sob from him.
"Let her rest!" he murmured in a stifled voice. She did not appear to hear him, and continued: "We will go to our uncle, dear, you and I. Do you want to go to him, Maria? Yes, yes! Let us go!" She slid from the bed to the floor and went to Uncle Piero. Clutching her sweet, dead burden to her breast with one arm, she threw the other about the old man's neck, and whispered: "A kiss, a kiss, for your little Missipipì. One kiss, only one!"
Uncle Piero bent down and kissed the little face, already sadly ravaged by death, wetting it with two great tears.
"Look, look, Uncle!" she said. "Doctor, bring the candle! Yes, yes! Don't be cruel, doctor. Look, Uncle! See what a little treasure she is, doctor!"
Aliprandi hesitated, and tried to resist her appeals, but in this mad grief there was something sacred, something that must be respected. He obeyed, and raising the candle, held it close to the tiny corpse, that was intensely pitiful with itshalf-open eyes and dilated pupils, this little corpse that had once been Maria, sweet little Missipipì, the old man's delight, the smile and the love of the house.
"Look at this tiny breast, Uncle. See how we have abused it, poor treasure, how we have hurt it with all our rubbing. It was your mamma, Maria darling! Your horrid mamma, and that wicked doctor there."
"Enough!" said the doctor resolutely, setting the candle on the writing-desk. "Talk to your child if you will, but not to this one. Talk to the one in Heaven."
The effect of his words was terrible. All tenderness vanished from Luisa's face. She drew back, frowning fiercely, and pressing her dead child closer to her breast. "No!" she cried aloud. "No, not in Heaven! She is mine! She is mine! God is wicked! I will not give her to Him!"
She drew ever farther back, back into the alcove, where, standing between the great bed and the little one, she once more began uttering those low groans which did not seem human. Aliprandi sent the trembling old man out of the room. "It will pass! It will pass!" he said. "We must have patience. I will stay with her now." Ismaele came into the hall and drew the Professor aside.
"Has Signor Don Franco been informed?" he asked.
They consulted the uncle and it was decided thata telegram in Uncle Piero's name, and announcing serious illness, should be sent from Lugano the next morning, for it was now too late. There was some one else in the hall. Poor Barborin Pasotti, who had hastened thither while her husband was absent escorting the Marchesa back to Cressogno. She was sobbing, and in despair because she had given Maria the little boat. She wished to go to Luisa, but the doctor, hearing loud crying, came out and begged her to be calm and silent. Barborin went to cry in the loggia. The Curate, Don Brazzova, and the Prefect of the Caravina, who had been dining at Casa Pasotti, had accompanied Barborin. Later the Curate of Castello, Intrioni, arrived, weeping like a child. He was determined to go to Luisa in spite of the doctor's protests, and knelt in the centre of the room, entreating her to give her baby to the Lord. "Listen, Signora Luisa, listen. If you will not give her to God, give her to her grandmother Teresa, to your own dear mother who will be so happy to have her with her in Heaven."
Luisa was touched, not by his words, but by his grief, and answered gently: "Can you not understand that I do not believe in your Heaven? My Heaven is here!"
Aliprandi made a gesture of entreaty to the Curate, who went out, sobbing.
The doctor left Oria towards midnight with the Professor. The whole house was quiet, norwas any voice to be heard in the alcove-room. Aliprandi had spent the last two hours in the hall with the Professor and Ester, and not a single cry, not a groan, nor any movement had he heard. He had gone twice to look in. Luisa was sitting on the edge of her bed, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, contemplating the little bed which Aliprandi could not see. This state of immobility caused him more anxiety than the state of intense excitement that had preceded it. As Ester was going to remain all night he advised her to try and rouse her friend, to make her talk and weep.
Some women from the village were to watch with Ester, and Ismaele would be there until five o'clock, when he must start for Lugano. Uncle Piero had gone to bed.
Aliprandi and the Professor stopped on the square by the church to look at the lighted window of the alcove-room, and to listen. Silence. "Accursed lake!" the physician exclaimed, taking his companion's arm and once more starting forward. He was certainly thinking of the sweet little creature the lake had killed when he uttered the words, but in his heart there was also a great fear that other troubles might be approaching, that the treacherous waters had not yet done their worst; and he was overwhelmed with pity for the poor father, who, as yet, knew nothing.
On receiving the telegram Franco at once hastened to the office of theOpinione, in Via della Rocca. Perceiving his agitation, Dina said: "Ah! then you already know?" Franco's blood ran cold, but on hearing about the telegram Dina exhibited great surprise. No, no, of that he knew nothing. Information had reached him from the Prime Minister that the Austrian police had been searching houses and making arrests in Vall' Intelvi, and that among the papers of a certain doctor there was one in which the name of Don Franco Maironi was mentioned, with particulars of a compromising nature. Dina added that at a moment of such great anguish for a father, he would refrain from going into an explanation of Count Cavour's interest in him; suffice it to say that he himself had mentioned Franco to the Count, who had expressed his regret that a Lombard gentleman, bearing such a distinguished name, should be obliged to live in such straitened and obscure circumstances in Turin. Dina believed it was his intention to offer him a position in the Foreign Office. Now, of course, Francomust go. But the little girl would recover and he must return as soon as possible. Meanwhile he would stop at Lugano, would he not? He must, at least, await news there, and unless it became absolutely necessary, he must not venture into Lombardy. After this affair at Vall' Intelvi it would be extremely imprudent. As Franco remained silent, the director once more broached the subject before bidding him good-bye. "Be prudent! Don't let them take you!" But Franco would not answer.
Ever since the receipt of the telegram Franco had walked the streets of Turin like one in a dream, deaf to the noise of his own footsteps, unconscious of what he saw, of what he heard, going mechanically wherever it was necessary for him to go at this juncture, wherever a certain servile and lower faculty of the soul might lead him, that faculty composed of reason and of instinct, which is capable of guiding us through a labyrinth of city streets, while the mind, concentrated upon some problem, some passion, takes no heed of our movements. He sold his watch and chain to a watchmaker of Doragrossa for one hundred and thirty-five lire, purchased a doll for Maria, stopped at Café Alfieri and Café Florio to leave word for his friends, and was at the station by eleven o'clock, although the train for Novara which he was to take did not start until half-past eleven. At a quarter-past the Paduan and the young man from Udine appeared. They endeavouredto encourage him with all sorts of rosy suppositions and unconvincing arguments, but he answered never a word and only longed intensely for the moment of departure, longed to be alone, to be hastening towards Oria, for he was determined to go to Oria, no matter how great the danger might be. He entered a third-class carriage, and when the locomotive whistled and the train began to move, he heaved a great sigh of relief, and gave himself up entirely to thoughts of Maria. But there were too many people about him, they were too many, too rough, and too noisy. At Chivasso, feeling he could no longer bear their chattering and laughter, he changed into an empty second-class carriage, where he began to talk aloud, his eyes fixed on the opposite seat.
Good God! why had they not added another word to the telegram? Just one word more! At least the name of the illness.
A terrible name flashed across his brain: Croup! He gasped with horror, and threw out his arms against this phantom, his muscles suddenly stiffening, then, letting his arms sink once more, he heaved a sigh so deep that it seemed to expel the very soul, even life itself, from his breast. It must indeed be a sudden illness, or Luisa would have written. Another name flashed across his mind. Brain-fever! He himself had been at the point of death with brain-fever when a child. Oh God! oh God! It must be that! God Himself had sent this thought to him. He was shaken bytearless sobbing. Maria, his treasure, his love, his joy! Yes, indeed it must be that. He could see her gasping, flushed, watched over by her mother and the doctor. In a moment he pictured to himself long hours spent by her bedside, long hours of anguish, then he pictured the birth of hope, heard the first whisper of that sweet voice:
"Papa! my papa!"
He started to his feet, clasping and wringing his hands in a mute impulse of prayer. Presently he sank back into his seat again, exhausted, and turned unseeing eyes upon the flying landscape, vaguely conscious of some connection between the misty Alps looming motionless there against the northern horizon and the thought that dominated him, looming motionless and torpid within his soul. From time to time the jolting of the train would rouse him from his stupor, suggesting the idea of a painful race, stimulating his heart to rush, to beat thus also. Sometimes he would close his eyes, the better to picture his arrival at home. Images would at once rise from his heart to his eyelids, but they were always changing, continually moving, and he could not hold them for more than a second. Now it was Luisa hastening towards him on the stairs; now the uncle holding out his arms to him from the door of the hall; now Dr. Aliprandi who was opening the door of the alcove-room to him, and saying: "She is better, she is better!" Now in the darkened room, filled with shadows, it wasMaria herself who gazed at him with glassy, feverish eyes.
When he reached Vercelli, he felt as if he were a thousand miles from Turin, and once more awoke to a sense of reality. How should he get from Lugano to Oria? What route should he take? Should he go openly by the lake, showing himself at the Custom-House? And what if they would not allow him to proceed because his passport had not been stamped on leaving Italy as the law demanded? Or, worse still, what if a warrant of arrest be out against him on account of those papers taken from the doctor at Pellio? He had better keep to the hills. They might arrest him later, but with his knowledge of the neighbourhood, acquired on his many hunting expeditions in 1848, he was almost sure of reaching home. This wearisome task of planning and arranging absorbed his attention for some time, and kept him occupied until he had passed Arona, on the Lake Maggiore steamer. He had arranged to reach Lugano in the middle of the night. Would there be some one there to meet him? If there were no one there, perhaps he might hear something at the Fontana pharmacy, where the Valsolda people were in the habit of congregating. If God would only permit reassuring news to reach him at Lugano he would postpone decision as to his journey to Oria until the morrow. He therefore determined to make no plans before reaching Lugano, and he prayed fervently thatthe Almighty would allow this good news to reach him. The sky was overcast; the mountains had already assumed their sad autumnal tints; a thin mist hung over the lake; the bells of Meina were ringing; on the steamer there were but few passengers, and Franco's prayer died in his heart, stifled by a crushing sadness, while his eyes unconsciously followed a flock of white gulls, that were winging their flight towards the distant waters of Laveno, towards that hidden country where his soul was.
It was past seven when he reached Magadino. He climbed Monte Ceneri on foot, following the path that leads to the road-mender's house, took a carriage at Bironico and reached Lugano shortly after midnight. He alighted in the Piazza, near Café Terreni. The coffee-house was closed, the square was deserted and dark, and silence reigned; even the lake, which could be seen gently rising and falling in the gloom, was silent. Franco paused a moment on the shore, hoping that some one had come to meet him, and would presently appear. He could not see Valsolda, hidden behind Monte Brè, but that same water mirrored Oria, and slept in the boathouse at home. A wave of peace eased his heart somewhat; he felt he was among things familiar to him. Every human voice was hushed, but the great, dark hills spoke to him, Monte Caprino and the Zocca d'i Ment more than all, for they overlooked Oria. They spoke gently to him, suggesting comfort-bringingthoughts. Nineteen hours had passed since the telegram was sent. All danger might now be over.
As no one appeared he went to the Fontana pharmacy, and rang the bell. For many years he had known that most worthy, cordial, and honest man, Signor Carlo Fontana, who has now passed away with the world of long ago. Signor Carlo came to the window, and was greatly surprised to see Don Franco. He had no news from Oria. He had spent the last two days at Tesserete, and had returned only a few hours before, so could tell him nothing. His assistant had started for Bellinzona that evening. Franco thanked him and walked away in the direction of Villa Ciani, for he was now determined to go to Oria at once.
Two routes were open to him. He could either climb the Swiss slope of the Boglia from Pregassona, strike the heights of Bolla; cross the Pian Biscagno and the great beech wood, coming out at the venerable beech-tree of the Madonnina on the brow of the hill which slopes down into Lombardy, and then drop down on to Albogasio Superiore and Oria; or he could take the easy Gandria road, leading towards the lake, and then follow that treacherous and dangerous path which starts from Gandria, the last Swiss village, cuts along the face of the almost perpendicular cliff, crosses the frontier some hundred metres above the lake, runs on to the Origa farm, drops into the ravine of Val Malghera, rising once more to theRooch farm, where it joins the paved way which passes above Niscicoree and finally leads down to Oria. The first route was much longer and far more difficult, but it afforded a better chance of eluding the vigilance of the guards at the frontier. On leaving the Fontana pharmacy Franco had been fully determined to go that way, but when, on reaching Cassarago, where the roads to Pregassona and to Gandria meet, he saw how near the point of Castagnola was, and reflected that it would take him less than half an hour to go from Castagnola to Gandria, and that another hour and a half would take him from Gandria to Oria, the idea of climbing the Boglia, of walking seven or eight hours, became intolerable to him. Besides, if he went by the Boglia he would arrive in the daytime, and this, of course, would jeopardise his safety. He turned his face resolutely towards Castagnola and Gandria. The sky was now completely overcast with heavy clouds. Beneath the great chestnut trees that line the road to Castagnola, he could not see where to set his feet, but how much worse it would have been in the great beech forest of the Boglia if Franco had chosen that route. It was just as dark in Castagnola, and worse in the labyrinth of narrow lanes at Gandria. After wandering backwards and forwards among these lanes for some time, always mistaking his way, Franco at last found himself on the path leading to the frontier, and stopped to rest. Before starting forward againin the impenetrable darkness, before braving the dangers of a difficult path, and of a meeting with the Austrian guards, and then facing another terrifying step, that of entering his house, of putting the first question, of listening to the first answer, he raised his heart to God, and concentrated all the powers of his mind upon a determination to be strong and calm.
Once more he started forward. Now he must give his whole attention to the path, in order not to fall or lose his way. The little fields of Gandria soon come to an end. Then wild tracts follow, that jut out over the lake, and are covered with a thick growth of low bushes; then come ravines with crumbling sides, that go tumbling straight downwards, and are half hidden by the bushes. In such places as these Franco was obliged to feel his way blindly, to cling first to one branch, then to another, plunging his face in among the leaves, that, at least, smelt of Valsolda, and dragging himself from bush to bush. He must explore the ground with his foot, trembling lest it give way beneath him, and seeking for traces of the path. The bundle he carried was small, but nevertheless it embarrassed him. The rustling of the foliage as he brushed past, irritated him; it seemed as if it must be heard a long way off, on the hills and on the lake, in the solemn hush of the night. Then he would stop and listen. He could hear only the distant thundering of the falls at Rescia, the hooting of owls in the woods over yonder,across the lake, and from time to time, far below, a sharp stroke on the water, for which he could not account. It took him quite an hour to reach the frontier. There, between the Valle del Confine and the Val Malghera, the forest had been recently cut down, and the rocky slope was bare. This enhanced both the danger of falling, and that of discovery. He crossed this tract very slowly, often pausing, sometimes crawling on hands and knees. Before reaching Oria he heard the faint dip of oars far below. He knew the customs-guards' boat sometimes passed the shore of Val Malghera at night. Surely these were the guards. Beneath the chestnut trees of Origa he breathed freely once more. There he was hidden, and could walk noiselessly on the grass. He descended the western slope of Val Malghera and climbed up the other side without encountering any obstacles. On approaching Rooch his heart beat furiously. Rooch is a sort of outpost of Oria. There the little path ends that he had so often followed with Luisa on mild winter afternoons, gathering violets and laurel leaves, and talking of the future. He remembered that the last time, they had had a discussion concerning the most desirable husband for Maria, and the qualities he must possess. Franco had hoped he would be a country gentleman, but Luisa had been in favour of a civil engineer.
Rooch is a little farmhouse perched above a few small fields which lie terraced against thehillside, and form a small, light clearing among the surrounding woods. The stable, a room above it, a small portico in front of the stable, a cistern under the portico—that is all. The little portico is just above the narrow paved way that passes some two or three metres below. It is only a few steps from the comb of the ravine of Val Malghera, to Rooch. Having reached the comb, Franco heard low voices in the farmhouse.
He paused and drawing aside, stretched himself, face downwards, upon the grass, beyond the path, and near a cluster of low chestnut trees. The voices became silent, but he heard a man's steps coming rapidly towards him; he lay quite still, holding his breath. The man stopped almost at his side, waited a moment, and then slowly retraced his steps, saying in a loud voice, with a foreign accent: "There is no one here, it must have been a fox."
The guards! A long silence followed, during which Franco did not dare to move. The guards once more began to talk, and he decided to crawl noiselessly backwards, to drop down into Val Malghera and pass behind and above the house. Slowly, very slowly he pulled off his boots. He was about to move when he heard two or three guards leave the farmhouse, talking as they came towards him. He heard one of them say: "Is no one going to stay here?" and another answered: "It is not necessary."
Four guards brushed past him without noticinghim. They certainly had no suspicions, for they were talking unconcernedly. One was saying that a person may remain ten minutes under water without drowning; but another maintained that five minutes is long enough to cause death. The fourth passed him in silence, but hardly had he done so when he stopped. Franco shuddered upon hearing him strike a match. He lit his pipe, puffed at it two or three times, and then called out to his companions in a loud voice, for they had already gone some way down the slope of Val Malghera.
"How old was she?"
One of the others answered, louder still:
"Three years and one month."
Then the fourth guard puffed twice more and started forward. Three years and one month! Maria's age! Franco, lying on his face, raised himself upon his elbows, clutching convulsively at the grass. The noise of the steps died away down below in Val Malghera.
"My God! My God!" he cried. Rising to his knees he repeated the terrible words in his heart, slowly, as if stupefied. "She was!" He wrung his hands, moaning once more: "My God! My God!"
After this he was hardly conscious of his movements. He went down to Oria with the vague sensation of having grown suddenly deaf, and his arm which clasped the doll trembled violently. Reaching the Madonna del Romit he crossed the town, and instead of going down by the Pomodorostairway he followed the path that joins the short cut to Albogasio Superiore, and descended those same stairs that Barborin Pasotti had descended the day before the catastrophe. On the wall of the church he noticed a pale light which was reflected from the alcove-room. He neither paused beneath the window, nor called out, but stepped under the porch and tried the door.
It was open.
From the coolness of the night he passed into a heavy, close atmosphere, laden with the unfamiliar odour of burnt vinegar and incense. With difficulty he dragged himself up the stairs. Before him, on the landing, half-way up, light fell from above. On reaching the spot he saw that the light came from the alcove-room. He went on and presently stood in the corridor. The door of the room was wide open; there must be many candles burning in there. Mingled with the odour of incense he recognised the perfume of flowers, and began to tremble so violently that he could not go on. No sound reached him from the room. Suddenly he heard Luisa's voice, speaking tenderly, quietly: "Do you want me to go where you are going to-morrow, Maria? Do you want your mamma under the ground with you?" "Luisa! Luisa!" sobbed Franco, and they found themselves in each others' arms, on the threshold of their nuptial chamber, where the memory of their love was still alive, but where its sweet fruit lay dead.
"Come, dear. Come in," said she, and drew him forward. In the centre of the room, between four lighted candles, stood the little open coffin, in which lay poor Maria, under a mound of flowers, broken and wilted like herself. There were roses, heliotrope, jasmine, begonia, geraniums, verbena, flowering sprays ofolea fragrans, and other blossomless sprays, all dark and shiny, from the carob tree she had loved so well, because it had been dear to papa. Flowers and leaves lay across her face as well.
Franco fell upon his knees sobbing: "My God! My God!" while Luisa chose two tiny rosebuds, placed them in Maria's little hand, and kissed her brow.
"You can kiss her hair," said she, "but not her face. The doctor does not wish it."
"But you have just done so!"
"Oh, it is a different thing for me."
But instead he pressed his lips to her icy lips, that showed among the geraniums and the carob leaves, touching them gently, as in a tender, but not despairing farewell to the outward wrapping now cast aside and empty, which had once belonged to his beloved baby, who had gone to dwell elsewhere.
"Maria! My darling Maria!" he whispered between his sobs. "What was the matter?"
He had not realised the connection between the guards' talk about drowning and the rest of their conversation.
"You have not heard?" said his wife calmly, and without surprise. They had told her how the telegram had been worded, but she was also aware that Ismaele was to have met Franco in Lugano. She did not know, however, that as Franco had not arrived by the coach from Ceneri, Ismaele had gone to bed.
"Poor Franco!" said she, kissing his hair almost maternally. "There was no illness."
He started to his feet, terrified, and exclaiming: "What do you mean? There was no illness?"
Leu, the person whom Franco had heard breathing heavily in her sleep, now came in with the intention of fumigating the room, but seeing Franco she stopped in amazement. "Come in," said Luisa. "You may place the brazier outside the door; sprinkle whatever is necessary upon it, and then return to the kitchen and sleep, my good Leu." The woman obeyed.
"There was no illness?" Franco repeated.
"Come," his wife answered. "I will tell you everything."
She made him sit down on thedormeuseat the foot of their bed. He wished her to sit beside him, but she made a gesture of refusal, and of entreaty that he should not insist, that he should be quiet and wait; then, sinking down on the floor beside her baby, she began the painful story in a low, even voice, that sounded almost indifferent to the tragedy it was relating, a voice that resembled poor, deaf Barborin's, seeming tocome from a far-away world. She began with her meeting with Peppina Bianconi at Campo, and—always in the same calm tone—told him all the thoughts, all the sentiments that had brought her to confront his grandmother, told him everything, down to the moment when she had realised that Maria was indeed dead. When she had finished she rose to her knees, and kissing her dead child, whispered to her: "Now your papa thinks that I killed you, but it is not true, dear, indeed, it is not true!"
He rose, quivering with nameless emotion, and bending over her, raised her—neither yielding nor resisting—from the floor. Touching her resolutely but tenderly, he placed her on thedormeusebeside him. He encircled her shoulders with his arm, pressing her to him, speaking with his lips on her hair, wetting it with the hot tears, which from time to time choked his voice. "My poor Luisa! No, indeed you did not kill her! How could you suspect me of thinking such a thing? I bless you instead for all that you have done for her ever since she came into the world; I, who have done nothing, bless you who have done so much. Never say such a thing again! Never, dear. Our Maria——"
A violent sob checked his words, but the man immediately exerted his strong will, controlled himself and continued:
"Don't you know what our Maria is saying now? She is saying: 'My darling mamma, my darlingpapa, now you are all alone, you have only each other, you are more closely united than ever; give me to God that He may give me back to you; that I may become your little guardian angel, and lead you to Him at last, that we may dwell together in all eternity,' Do you hear her saying these words, Luisa?"
She trembled in his arms, shaken by spasmodic quiverings; her face bent low, resisted Franco when he would have raised it. At last she took his hand and kissed it. Then he also kissed her on the hair, and murmured: "Answer me."
"You are good!" Luisa replied, in a faint and despairing voice. "You wish to spare me, but you do not believe what you say. You must feel that I caused her death, that if I had adopted your sentiments, your ideas, I should not have left the house, and if I had not left the house this would not have happened, and Maria would still be alive."
"Don't think of that, my dear, don't! You might have believed Maria was with Veronica; you might have remained in the room with the fiancés, and the accident would have happened just the same. Don't think of this any more, Luisa. Rather listen to what Maria is saying."
"Poor Franco! Poor, poor fellow!" said Luisa, with such bitterness of terrible hidden meanings, that his blood ran cold. He shuddered and was silent, unable to grasp her meaning, and at the same time dreading an explanation. Slowly they withdrew from each other's arms, Luisa being thefirst to move. She again took her husband's hand and wished to carry it to her lips, but Franco drew her hand tenderly towards him and made a last attempt.
"Why will you not answer me?"
"I should hurt you too much," she murmured.
He began to realise the irreparable ruin of her soul, and was silent. He did not withdraw his hand, but felt his strength deserting him, felt darkness and icy cold creeping over him, as if Maria, whom he had evoked in vain, had died a second time. Anguish, fatigue, the heavy atmosphere, the mingled odours of the room, affected him so strongly that he was obliged to go out, or he would have fainted.
He went to the loggia. The windows were open and the sweet, fresh air restored him. Out there in the dark he wept for his little daughter unrestrainedly, without even that restraint which light imposes. He knelt by one of the windows, crossed his arms on his breast and wept, his face raised towards heaven, tears and words flowing together, disjointed words of anguish and of faith, calling out to God for help, to God, to God who had dealt him the blow. With streaming eyes he cried out, begging that his tears might continue to flow, confessing that he knew full well why the child had died. Had he not prayed again and again that God would preserve her from the danger of losing her faith through her mother's influence? Ah! that last night! That last nightwhen Maria had said to him: "Darling papa, a kiss!" and so many other tender things, and would not let go his hand, how he had prayed! The memory of it was a terror, a joy, a spasm to him. "Lord, Lord!" said he, gazing heavenward. "Thou wert silent, but my voice reached Thee. Thou hast answered my prayer in Thine own mysterious way. Thou hast taken my treasure to Thyself, she is safe, she is happy, she awaits me. Thou wilt reunite us." The fast-falling tears that accompanied his last words had no bitter taste, but presently, while thinking once more of that last night, he was bitterly sorry he had left Maria without telling her that he had deceived her. "Maria, my own Maria!" he entreated, weeping, "forgive me!" Good God! it seemed impossible that all this could be true; it seemed impossible that if he went into the alcove-room he should not find her there asleep in her little bed, her head drooping towards her shoulder and her tiny hands resting, palms upward, upon the sheet. Indeed she was still there, but——! Oh! how awful it all was! Surely his tears would never end.
Leu came in bringing a light and a cup of coffee. The Signora had sent her. He felt a thrill of tender gratitude towards his wife. Good God! Poor Luisa! How hopeless was her grief! And what an awful semblance of punishment for her in the blow which had fallen upon her at that very moment, that very moment! She herself had realised that he must think this, and he did indeedthink it, but had denied his thought in order to spare her, and this she had also realised. And was this awful semblance of punishment destined not to bear any fruit whatsoever? She seemed to shrink from God more than ever now, and who could tell how far she might wander! Poor, poor Luisa! It was not Maria he should pray for, Maria did not need his prayers. He must pray for Luisa, pray night and day, trusting also in the prayers of the precious little soul now hidden in God.
He talked with Leu, feeling more calm now, and had her tell him all she had seen, all she had heard of this terrible event. "The Lord wanted your little child for Himself," said Leu at last. "If you could only have seen her in church, with her little folded hands and her serious little face! She looked just like an angel. Indeed she did." Then she asked Franco if she should leave the light. No, he preferred to be in the dark. At what time was the funeral to take place? At eight o'clock, Leu thought. When Leu once began talking it was always hard for her to leave off, and perhaps now she was afraid of staying in the kitchen all alone. "Her papa!" she added, before going out. "Her dear papa! It isn't more than a week ago that I came here with some chestnuts for the Signora, and that blessed little creature, who spoke so well, for all the world like a lawyer, said to me: 'Do you know, Leu, my papa is coming to Lugano very soon, and I am going to see him.' Oh, dear! What a dreadful thing!"
His tears flowed afresh. Ah, God had taken the child to save her from the errors of the world. God had punished Luisa for her errors, but was not this awful punishment intended for him also? Was he not guilty also? Ah, yes! Very, very guilty! A clear vision of his past life rose before him, his life, barren of all useful labour, full of vanities, corresponding ill with the beliefs he professed, a life which rendered him responsible for Luisa's unbelief. The world accounted him virtuous for certain qualities he possessed through no merit of his own, for they were inborn in him, and he felt that for this very reason God's judgment of him must be doubly severe; for God had endowed him richly, and he had gathered no fruit. Once more he fell upon his knees and humbly accepted his punishment, in the desolate contrition of his heart, in his burning desire to expiate, to purify himself, to become worthy of re-union with Maria at last.
A long, long time he prayed and wept. At last he went out to the terrace. Above Galbiga and the hills of the Lake of Como the sky was growing light; day was breaking. From neighbouring Boglia a cold north wind was blowing. From far and near, from the lake shore, from the lofty bosom of the valley, bells rang out. The thought that Maria and Grandmother Teresa were together and happy, rose suddenly, clear and sweet in Franco's heart. It seemed to him the Lord was saying to him: "I afflict thee, but I love thee.Wait, be steadfast, and thou shalt know." The bells chimed far and near, from the lake shore and from the lofty bosom of the valley. The sky grew ever brighter above Galbiga and towards the Lake of Como, along the steep, black profile of the Picco di Cressogno; and the sweep of smooth water down there in the East, between the great shadows of the mountains, was like a shining pearl. The sprays of the passion-flower vine, touched by the north wind, waved silently above Franco's head, in quivering anticipation of the light, of the immense glory that was rising out of the east, colouring clouds and clear sky with itself, and welcomed by the bells.
To live, to live, to work, suffer, adore, and ascend! That was what the light demanded! He must carry the living away in his arms, carry the dead away in his heart, return to Turin, work for Italy, die for her! The dawning day demanded this. Italy! Italy! Beloved Mother! Franco clasped his hands in a transport of desire.
Luisa heard the bells also. She wished that she might not have heard them, wished that day might never dawn, bringing with it the hour in which Maria must be consigned to the grave. On her knees beside her baby's little body she promised her that every day of her life she would come and talk to her, bring her flowers, and bear her company; morning and evening she would come. Then she sank down and gave herself up to those dark thoughts which she had not wishedto confess to her husband, and which had grown and matured in her during the last twenty-four hours, as a malignant infection of remote origin which has lain dormant in the system, being caught up at last in the current of the blood, suddenly bursts forth with overwhelming violence.
All her religious views, her faith in the existence of God, her scepticism concerning the immortality of the soul were tending towards subversion. She was convinced that she was in no way responsible for Maria's death. If indeed there did exist an Intelligence, a Will, a Power which was master of men and of things, then the monstrous guilt was of this Intelligence, which had coldly pre-ordained Barborin Passotti's visit and gift; had withdrawn Maria from those who should have watched over her in her mother's absence; had lured her, defenceless, towards destruction; had killed her. That same Power had checked her, the mother, when she had been about to perform an act of justice. Fool that she was, ever to have believed in Divine Justice! There was no such thing as Divine Justice! Instead there was the altar allied to the throne; the Austrian God, a party to all injustice, all tyranny, author of suffering, and of evil, slayer of the innocent and protector of the wicked. Ah! if such a God did indeed exist, it were better that Maria be there in that body, better that no part of her should live on to fall into the toils of this fiendish Omnipotence!
But it was possible to doubt the existence ofthis horrible God. And if He did not exist we might desire that a part of a human being should continue to live beyond the grave, live not miraculously, but naturally. That was perhaps easier to conceive than the existence of an invisible tyrant, of a Creator who was cruel to the beings of His own creation. The rule of nature without God was certainly preferable; better a blind master, who was not our enemy, not deliberately cruel. But henceforth, at least, no thought must be wasted in any way, either in this life or in the next—if, indeed, the next exist—upon that vain phantom, Justice!
The faint light of dawn mingled with her thoughts as it had mingled with Franco's thoughts, solemn and consoling to him, hateful to her. He, the Christian, meditated an insurrection of wrath and of arms against brothers in Christ, for love of a dot upon the surface of one of Heaven's orbs; she meditated an immense rebellion, the liberation of the Universe. Her thought might be the greater, her intellect might appear the stronger, but he whom the human generations learn to know even better as they advance in civilisation and science; He who allows each generation to honour Him according to its strength, and who gradually transforms and raises the ideals of the nations, making use even of inferior and fleeting ideals, when He deems it opportune, in His government of the world; He who, being Peace and Life, has allowed Himself to be called the God of armies,had impressed the sign of His judgment upon the face of the woman and upon the face of the man. While dawn burned into the glory of sunrise, Franco's brow became ever more brightly illumined by a light from within, and through his tears his eyes shone with the vigour of life; but Luisa's brow grew ever darker, and from the depths, the shadows mounted to her dull eyes.
As the sun rose a boat came in sight off the point of Caravina. It brought the lawyer, V., who had come from Varenna in obedience to Luisa's call.
On the evening of that same day a numerous company assembled in the Marchesa's red drawing-room. Pasotti had brought his unlucky wife by main force, and he had brought Signor Giacomo Puttini also, although that gentleman had held out for some time against the most gracious Controller's despotic caprices. The curate of Puria and Paolin had also put in an appearance, both being anxious to observe the effects of the tragedy on the old lady's marble countenance. Paolin of course dragged the worthy Paolon in his wake, he being still in a state of limp and sheepish resistance. The curate of Cima, who was devoted to the Marchesa, came also, as did the prefect of Caravina, whose heart really belonged to Franco and Luisa, but who, as parish-priest of Cressogno, was bound to treat their enemy with a certain amount of consideration.
She received them all with her usual impassive expression, with her usual calm greeting. Signora Barborin, who had been cautioned by her master against alluding to the event at Oria, was madeto sit on the sofa beside her hostess, who graciously accepted the homage of the others, put the usual questions to Paolin and Paolon concerning their respective consorts, and having satisfied herself that both Paolina and Paolona were enjoying the best of health, she folded her hands over her stomach and relapsed into dignified silence, her courtiers forming a semicircle around her. Pasotti, noting the absence of Friend, inquired for him with obsequious solicitude. "And Friend? Dear little Friend?" Although, had he had him in his clutches—solus cum solo—the nasty, little snarling beast which worried his trousers and his wife's skirts, he would have joyfully wrung his neck. Friend had been ill for two days. The entire company was greatly affected by this news, and loudly deplored the misfortune, secretly hoping the while that the accursed little monster might not recover. Barborin, not hearing a word, but seeing so many mouths at work, so many faces assuming a look of affliction, naturally supposed they were speaking of Oria, and turning to her neighbour Paolon, questioned him with her eyes, opening her mouth and pointing towards Oria. Paolon shook his head. "They are talking about the little dog," said he. The deaf woman did not understand, but she said: "Ah!" on general principles, and assumed an expression of affliction like the rest.
Friend ate too much, and his food was too rich, and he was now suffering from a disgusting skindisease. Paolin and the curate of Puria gave much careful advice. The prefect of Caravina had elsewhere expressed the charitable opinion that the creature ought to be pitched into the lake with his mistress tied to his neck. While the others were discussing the favourite with such lively interest, the prefect was thinking of Luisa as he had seen her that morning, her features distorted, opposing mad resistance first to the closing of the coffin, and then to its removal. He was thinking how, in the cemetery, she with her own hands had cast the earth upon her child, telling her to be patient, that she herself would soon come and lie down beside her, and that that would be their Paradise.
In spite of the animated and eager conversation concerning the mangy Friend, the phantoms of the dead child and the distracted mother were hovering in the room. Presently there came a moment of silence when no one could think of anything more to say about the dog, and then the two unhappy phantoms were heard by all, demanding that they speak of them, and all could see them distinctly in the eyes of one who loved them, in the eyes of poor, deaf Barborin. Her husband at once sought a diversion, and propounded a problem intarocchito Signor Giacomo. The othertarocchienthusiasts immediately took up the question, the voices of the phantoms could no longer be heard, and every one breathed more freely.
It was nine o'clock. Usually at that hour thefootman would come in with two lighted candles, and prepare the littletarocchitable in one corner of the room, between the great fireplace and the balcony on the West. Then the Marchesa would rise and say, with her habitual, drowsy calm:
"If you are ready——"
The two or three guests would invariably answer: "Quite ready," and then the three-handed or four-handed game would begin.
The old footman—who was devotedly attached to Don Franco—hesitated that night about bringing the candles. He did not believe it possible that his mistress and her guests would have the courage to play. At five minutes past nine, as the footman had not yet appeared, each one began privately commenting upon the delay. Before entering the house Paolin had maintained that there would be no playing, while the prefect had maintained the contrary. He now cast a triumphant glance at his adversary, as did also Paolon, who, from a spirit of solidarity with the other Paul, was pleased that he should be in the right. Pasotti, who had felt sure of his game, began to show signs of uneasiness. At seven minutes past nine the Marchesa requested the prefect to ring the bell. It was now the prefect's turn to bestow a triumphant glance on Paolin, and he put into it all the silent contempt for the old woman that it would hold.
"Prepare the table," said the Marchesa to the footman.
He soon returned with the two candles. From the depths of his sorrowful eyes also, the phantom of the dead child looked forth. While he was busy arranging the candles, the cards, and the ivory counters on the table, the room was enveloped in that silence which always preceded the rising of the Marchesa. But the Marchesa showed no intention of rising. She turned to Pasotti, saying:
"Controller, if you and the others wish to play——"
"Marchesa," Pasotti promptly replied, "my wife's presence must not deter you from enjoying your game. Barborin is not a good player, but she delights in looking on."
"I shall not play this evening," the Marchesa answered, and although the tone was mild, the refusal was decisive.
The worthy Paolon, who was always silent and could not playtarocchi, believed he had at last discovered a word which was both wise and obsequious, and which he might safely utter:
"Exactly!" said he.
Pasotti gave him a surly glance, thinking: "What business is it of his?" but he did not venture to speak. The Marchesa appeared not to have noticed Paolon's utterance, and added:
"The others can play if they like."
"Never!" exclaimed the prefect. "We should not think of such a thing!"
Pasotti drew his snuff-box from his pocket."TheSignor Prefetto," said he, speaking very distinctly, and slightly raising his open hand, a pinch of snuff between the thumb and forefinger, "TheSignor Prefettomust speak for himself. For my part, as the Signora Marchesa wishes us to play, I am quite willing to oblige her."
The Marchesa was silent, and the fiery prefect, encouraged by her silence, grumbled in an undertone:
"After all, we are in a house of mourning."
Never since Franco had left the house had his name been mentioned at these evening assemblies in the red drawing-room, nor had the Marchesa even alluded either to him or to his wife. She now broke the silence that had lasted four years.
"I am sorry for the baby," said she, "but as for her father and mother, the Almighty has seen fit to punish them."
No one spoke. After some minutes Pasotti said in a low and solemn tone:
"A fearful punishment!"
And the curate of Cima added in a louder voice:
"A manifest punishment!"
Paolin dared not remain silent, neither did he dare speak, so he ejaculated: "Dear, dear!" and this encouraged Paolon to repeat his "Exactly!" Signor Giacomo simply puffed.
"A chastisement from the Almighty!" the curate of Cima repeated with emphasis. "And also, considering the circumstances, a mark of His especial regard for some one else."
All, save the prefect, who was chafing inwardly, looked at the Marchesa as if the protecting hand of the Omnipotent were suspended above her wig. But instead that Divine Hand was hovering above the lofty bonnet of Barborin Pasotti, and was keeping her ears tightly closed, that they might not hear those contaminating and iniquitous words. "Curate," said Pasotti, "as the Signora Marchesa has proposed it, shall we have a little game? You, Paolin, Signor Giacomo, and I?"
The four, seated in their corner at the little card table, at once gave themselves up to the luxury of unrestrained conversation, and to the enjoyment of certain stale, Ambrosian[P]witticisms, which cling to thetarocchicards like grease.
"I shall get there first!" Pasotti exclaimed after the first round, laughing loudly, with the intention of proclaiming both his victory and his good spirits.
The players had rid themselves of the phantoms; not so the others. The deaf woman, sitting stiff and motionless on the sofa, had suffered mortal anguish, dreading a gesture from her husband which should command her to play. Oh, dear Lord! was she to be made to suffer this also? By the grace of Heaven the sign was not given, and her first feeling upon seeing the four seat themselves at the little table had been one of relief. But at once bitter disgust seized her.What an insult that game was to her Luisa! What contempt it showed for poor, dear little Maria, who was dead! No one spoke to her, no one noticed her, so she began to recite in her heart a string ofPaters,Aves, andGlorias, for the soul of that wicked creature seated at the other end of the sofa, who was so old, so rapidly approaching the moment when she must appear before her God. She repeated, for her benefit, the prayer for the conversion of sinners which she had been in the habit of repeating night and morning for her husband's benefit, ever since she had discovered his over-familiarity with a certain menial attached to her household.
When the prefect heard Pasotti's outburst of mirth, he rose to take his leave. "Wait," said the Marchesa, "you must have a glass of wine." At half-past nine a precious bottle of old San Colombano was usually brought in. "I shall not drink to-night," said the prefect heroically, "I have been greatly upset ever since this morning. Puria knows why."
"Dear, dear!" said Puria softly. "Of course it was a terrible tragedy."
Silence. The prefect bowed to the Marchesa, saluted Signor Pasotti with an expression that said: "You and I understand each other," and left the room.
The curate of Puria, who was possessed of a big body and a level head, was studying the Marchesa without appearing to do so. Was she or was shenot affected by the events at Oria? Her having refrained from playing seemed to him a doubtful symptom. She might have done so simply out of respect for her own flesh and blood. On closer observation the curate noticed that her hands trembled; this was unusual. She forgot to ask Pasotti if the wine was good; this also was unusual. Her face with its waxen mask, twitched violently from time to time; this was extremely unusual. "She is touched!" thought the curate. As she was perfectly silent, and as Signora Pasotti and Paolon were also silent, the whole group seemed turned to stone. Puria cast about for a means of breaking the ice, but could find nothing better than to induce those three heads to turn towards the card-table, while he commented upon Pasotti's exclamations, upon Paolin's and Signor Giacomo's ejaculations and puffings. The Marchesa roused herself somewhat, and expressed her satisfaction that the players were enjoying themselves. Barborin neither heard nor spoke a word, so the three others ended by talking about her. The Marchesa complained that she was so deaf it was impossible to converse with her. The other two lavished upon her all the praise she so richly deserved, the praise all those who remember her still lavish upon her. There she sat, sad and speechless, never suspecting that she was the subject of their conversation. The Lord protected her profound and simple meekness, by never allowing the praises of the world to enter intoher ears, but only the scoldings of her worthy consort.
Her great, sorrowful black eyes brightened when Signor Giacomo uttered a loud and final puff, and his companions, dropping their cards, threw themselves back in their respective chairs to rest a little and reflect upon the delights of the game. At last her master approached the sofa, and motioned to her to rise. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she was glad to get into the boat.
When her guests had left, the Marchesa rang the bell for the rosary, which they had not been able to repeat at the usual hour. The rosary was a living thing in Casa Maironi, having its roots in the Marchesa's past sins, and its growth was steady, for it was always putting forth freshAvesandGlorias, as the old lady became more advanced in years, and saw her own disgusting skull looming before her, ever more distinct, ever more apparent. Consequently her rosary was extremely long. The sweet peccadillos of her protracted youth did not trouble her conscience over-much, but there were certain other transgressions which could be computed in pounds, shillings, and pence, transgressions never properly confessed and therefore never properly forgiven, and these caused her great uneasiness; an uneasiness she was continually trying to stifle by means of rosaries, but which was forever bursting outafresh. While she was praying to the Great Creditor for the remission of her debts, she would feel perfect confidence in His power to remit them all, but later there would once more loom before her mind's eye the sorrowful faces of the lesser creditors, bringing with them doubts concerning the pardon received, and thus her avarice and her pride were ever struggling against the fear of a perpetual debtor's prison beyond the tomb.
When they had recited the prayers for the conversion of sinners, and those for the healing of the sick, and were about to begin theDe Profundis, she announced three newAve Marias, without, however, stating for what purpose. The scullery maid, a simple peasant from Cressogno, supposed theseAve Mariaswere intended for the unhappy family at Oria, and recited them with extreme fervour. The scullery-maid'sAvesclashed with and routed those of her mistress, which were asking for sleep, and rest for the nerves and conscience. As to theAve Mariasof all the others, they were repeated in the common hope that they might not remain definitely attached to the rosary, as too often happened. In short, no one succeeded in checking the onward march of the ghost.
Towards eleven o'clock the Marchesa retired. She drank some citron-water, and the maid having begun to talk of Oria and of Don Franco, who, it was whispered, had returned, she ordered her to be silent. She was certainly affected. She sawcontinually before her eyes the image of Maria as she had once seen her when passing in her gondola below the little Gilardoni villa; a slight figure in a white apron, with long hair and bare arms, and strangely like a child of her own who had died when only three. Did she feel affection or pity? She herself could not tell what she felt. Perhaps it was only irritation and terror at not being able to rid herself of an annoying image; perhaps it was fear at the thought that if a certain great sin had not been committed long ago, if Marchese Franco's will had not been burnt, the child would not have died.
When she was in bed she had the maid read some prayers to her, then she ordered her to put out the light, and finally dismissed her. She closed her eyes, trying not to think of anything, and saw beneath her eyelids, a shapeless, light spot, which little by little transformed itself into a small pillow, then into a letter, then into a large white chrysanthemum, and at last into a pale, drooping, dead face, that gradually grew smaller and smaller. She fancied she was falling asleep, but as a result of this last transformation the thought of the child shot through her heart, and although she saw nothing more beneath her eyelids, her drowsiness vanished, and she opened her eyes, vexed and uneasy. She determined to think out a game oftarocchiin order to drive away these troublesome fancies, and induce sleep. She thought of the game, and succeeded, by an effort,in seeing in her mind's eye the little card-table, the players, the candles, the cards; but when she relaxed the tension of effort, in order to give herself up to a passive contemplation of these soporific phantoms, something totally different appeared beneath her eyelids—a head which was continually changing its features, its expression, its position, and which, at last, slowly drooped forward, as in sleep or death, so that she could only see the hair. This was another shock to her nerves. The Marchesa once more opened her eyes, and heard the clock on the stairs begin to strike. She counted the strokes; twelve o'clock. It was already midnight, and she could not get to sleep! She lay some time with wide open eyes, and now images began to appear in the dark as they had before appeared beneath her eyelids. At first there was only a formless nucleus, which soon began to undergo transformation. She saw the face of a clock which presently turned into the horrible eye of a fish, and then became an angry, human eye. Suddenly the Marchesa felt quite sure she would not be able to go to sleep at all, and once more the drowsiness that had already taken firm hold on her, was put to flight. Then she rang the bell.
The maid let her ring twice, and then came in, half dressed and sleepy. She was ordered to place the candle upon a chair in such a position that the flame might not be visible from the bed, to get a volume of Barbieri's sermons, and to readin a low voice. The maid was in the habit of administering these narcotics. She began to read, but at the end of the second page, hearing her mistress's breathing grow deeper, she very gradually lowered her voice, until it became only an inarticulate murmur, and finally lapsed into silence. She waited a moment, listening to the deep and regular breathing, then rose and went to look at the dark face turned upwards on the pillows, with wrinkled brow and half-open mouth. Then she took up the candle and went out on tiptoe.
The Marchesa was asleep and dreaming. She was dreaming that she was stretched on a bed of straw in a great dark dungeon, chains upon her ankles, and accused of murder. The judge entered with a light, sat down beside her, and read her a sermon on the necessity of confession. She kept protesting that she was innocent, and repeating: "Don't you know she was drowned?" The judge made no answer, but went on reading in a mournful and solemn voice, while the Marchesa insisted: "No, no! I did not kill her!" In her dream she was no longer phlegmatic, but writhed like one in despair. "Remember that the child herself says so," the judge replied. He rose to his feet, repeating: "She says so." Then he struck the palm of one hand loudly upon the palm of the other, and called out: "Enter!" Thus far the Marchesa had been conscious in her dream that she was dreaming; at this point she thoughtshe awoke, and saw with horror, that some one had indeed entered the room.
A human form, slightly luminous, was seated in the armchair heaped with clothes that stood beside her bed, but in such a position that she could not distinguish the lower part of the apparition. Its shoulders, arms, and clasped hands were of a whitish hue, and indistinct in outline, but its head, that rested against the chair-back, was distinctly visible, and surrounded by a pale light. The dark, living eyes were staring at the Marchesa. Oh, horror! It was indeed the dead child! Oh, horror! Oh, horror! The eyes of the apparition spoke, and accused her. The judge was right, the child was saying so—without words—with her eyes! "It was you who did it, Grandmother, you! I should have been born, should have lived under your roof. You would not have it. Your punishment shall be death everlasting!"
The eyes alone, the staring, sad, pitiful eyes said all these things at once. The Marchesa uttered a long groan, and stretched out her arms towards the apparition, trying to say something, and succeeding only in gasping out: "Ah—ah—ah—" while the hands, the arms, the shoulders of the phantom vanished in a mist, the outlines of its face became blurred, and only the gaze remained, staring intently, and then finally becoming veiled was absorbed, as it were, into a deep and distant Self, nothing remaining of theapparition save a slight phosphorescence which was presently lost in the darkness.
The Marchesa awoke with a start. In her agitation she forgot the bell, and tried to call out, but could not raise her voice. By an effort of her will, which was still strong in spite of her failing bodily strength, she thrust her legs out of bed, and stood upright. She staggered forward a step or two in the dark, stumbling against the easy-chair, and clutched at another chair, dragging it down with her as she fell heavily to the ground, where she lay moaning.
The noise of the fall roused the maid, who called out to her mistress, but receiving no answer, and hearing the moaning, she lighted her candle and hastened into the room, where, in the dim light between the armchair and the bed she saw something large and white that was writhing on the floor like some huge marine monster, that has been cast upon the shore. She screamed and rushed to the bell, rousing the whole house at once, and then hastened to help the old woman, who was groaning: "The priest! The priest! The prefect! The prefect!"