her in the face? He would have seen the lines discompose under the wave of bitterness which invaded them, and then suddenly with heroic force recompose themselves. Instead, he only heard a proud, cold voice which accepted the renunciation.
“Let us remain in Rome.”
The hard, sharp compact which annulled one of their best dreams, and destroyed one of their intensest joys, was subscribed without any further observation.
He resumed with a little difficulty.
“Later on, in September, mamma wants me.”
“Where, then?”
“At Spello, you know, at our place, where she passes the autumn.”
“I know. You have gone there every year for some days; last year for ten days.”
“This year I ought to stay some days longer.”
“How many days longer?”
“Two weeks, perhaps two or three.”
As usual, on words which he feared would displease her Marco placed a courteous hesitation. He was never precise. He sought always to render the conversation more vague with a sweet smile.
Maria did not fall into the deception, and replied clearly—
“But three weeks are not the same as two, Marco.”
“They are not the same, it is true. I will try to shorten them.”
“Why remain so long?”
“My mother requires assistance this year; my brother Giulio is unable to give her any. I don’t like to say it, but my mother is getting older. The business of the house is heavy: there are so many things to regulate and decide. In fact, I neglect my mother a little.”
“Stop three weeks then,” she said, lowering her eyelids to hide the flash of her proud eyes.
“And you? What will you do in September in Rome alone?”
“I shall do what I can,” she said, throwing her head back among the cushions.
“Poor Maria,” he said slowly.
There was so much lack of comfort in those two words, so much empty sorrow; in fact, a pity so sterile, that she broke in—
“Don’t pity me, Marco; I don’t like you to pity me.”
“Does everything offend you, then, Maria?” he exclaimed, surprised.
“Pity above everything offends me—every one’s pity; but your pity offers me an atrocious offence.”
“You are very proud, Maria.”
“Very, Marco.”
“Will nothing ever conquer this fatal pride of yours?”
“Nothing, no one. No one except myself, and not even I myself.”
“Pride causes weeping, Maria.”
“It is true; but very seldom have human eyes seen my tears,” she said conclusively.
He felt that evening, as on so many others, that never more would they find, if not the flame of passion, even the penetrating sweetness of loving companionship. The beautiful and beloved woman was near him. They were together, alone and free, alone and masters of every movement of the mind and action of the body; but some mysterious obstacle had been interposed between them, whence all beauty, love, liberty and consent were in vain.
Maria had before her the man she loved, with all his attractive appearance, with all the charms of youth and health, with all his seductiveness of mind, and this man was there in the name of an invincible transport, and ought to be and could be hers in every hour of her life. Yet nothing came of it, just as if a wanton, and deliberately wanton, hand were destroying this flower and fruit of love.
Of the two, Marco Fiore seemed to be yielding feebly to this obstacle which was intruding itself between them: he was passive, a little morbid, and easily resigned. Maria Guasco, however, proud and combative, was fighting and endeavouring to conquer the infamous hand which was plucking in the dark all the roses of their passion. She, on the other hand, allowed herself to be conquered only at the last.
“Why don’t you go now?” she said anxiously.
“Do you believe I ought to?”
“Yes, it is nearly eleven. If you want to return here afterwards,” she added, “you will make me wait up rather too long.”
He raised his eyebrows as if he experienced some difficulty in breathing or speaking.
“Well … afterwards I should like to return home with Beatrice and mamma.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed at this blow, without further observation.
They became silent. He bent his head with that aspect of accustoming himself to a thing which had to occur, which had been usual with him for some time. She, instead, raised hers with that ever renascent pride which scorched her soul, and at last succeeded in smiling.
“But what will you do afterwards at home, Marco?”
“I shall go to bed. I am a little tired.”
“Tired of what?”
“Why, I don’t know. I have a curious physical weariness.”
“You should let a doctor examine you.”
“Do you think so? Rest heals everything.”
“It is true. Do you remember the time when you were unable to go to sleep without having written me a letter?”
“Yes, I remember,” he said surprised; “but when was that?”
“It was before—before we lived together,” she replied, with a slight trembling of the lips.
“Some time ago,” he said simply, without meaning it.
He got up to go. He took her two hands in his and pressed them with an infantile caress over his face, minutely kissing their soft and fragrant palms, and, as she lowered her head, instead of kissing her eyes as when he came in, his kisses were immersed in the dark and odorous waves of her hair.
“To-morrow, then, Marco,” she whispered, raising her head.
“To-morrow certainly, Maria,” he replied.
She accompanied him for two or three steps, almost to the door. Then she stopped for still a look or a word.
“Toujours?” she asked.
“Toujours,” he replied.
Their voices were monotonous and colourless, and their faces inexpressive
