Donna Arduina stopped in the centre of the large hall of Palazzo Fiore, with its dark carved wood, and red tapestry bearing the Fiore arms. In spite of her years and life’s troubles she still preserved her noble appearance. Marco bent and kissed her hand tenderly, while she kissed him on the forehead affectionately.
“Good-night, Marco.”
“Good-night, mamma.”
Vittoria had stopped two or three paces behind, wrapped in a white mantle, trimmed with gold, the large chinchilla collar of which suited the delicacy of her face and slender figure. She had placed no shawl on her hair, whose wavy gold was almost oppressed by the weight of the diadem, which shone brightly in the gloom of the hall. Her white and tranquil face is without expression, and her eyes have a distant and dull glance. In her hands she held her shawl, and waited patiently.
“Good-night, Vittoria,” said Donna Arduina, approaching her daughter-in-law.
“Good-night, mother,” she replied, stooping to kiss her hand. Then she drew herself up naturally and avoided the kiss on her forehead which Donna Arduina intended to give her.
Donna Arduina hesitated a moment as if she wished to say something, then, turning her back, she walked slowly and imposingly towards her own apartments. Marco had already started towards his, and his wife followed him without saying a word. As they crossed the various rooms, Marco looked two or three times at Vittoria as if he wished to question her silent, reserved face. She appeared, however, not to notice his questioning glance. Thus they reached their immense bedroom, the room occupied by the eldest sons of Casa Fiore and their wives for more than three hundred years, which modern taste and modern furniture had changed very little, leaving the solemnity and austerity of the old Roman patrician houses. In the majesty of her surroundings, the fragile woman seemed but a fantastic shadow. She sat down, but did not take off her cloak, opening it a little as if she felt warm.
“Aren’t you going to call your maid?” Marco asked, taking the gardenia out of his buttonhole, as if about to undress.
“No,” she replied, “a little later. I must say something to you, Marco.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly, and jokingly sought to change the tone of the conversation.
“We will talk in bed if you like, dear. It is an excellent place for conversation, and I will listen to you with deep attention without going to sleep.”
“No,” she replied dryly, “we must talk as we are.”
“As we are, dressed for society! As we were in Casa Nerola? Very well, dear, but I find the Emperor is missing. We can telephone to him, if you like, to assist at this colloquy?”
And he laughed mischievously. However, Vittoria paid no attention.
“I want to make a request of you, Marco.”
“What is it?”
“I want ten days’ freedom.”
“You, Vittoria?”
“I, yes.”
“To do what?”
“I want to make a retreat at Bambino Gesù now that Christmas is drawing near,” she concluded, in a low voice.
“A novena!” he exclaimed, internally relieved, but not showing it; “and what prevents you from doing it here?”
“It is impossible, Marco. It isn’t a question of prayer only. One must retire for nine whole days to a convent.”
“To a convent? Are you going to become a nun like Ophelia?”
“Why Ophelia? What do you mean?”
“Nothing, nothing. Go then to your convent; which one?”
“That of the white nuns of Gesù Bambino in via Merulana.”
“Who put such a strange idea into your head, Vittoria? Doesn’t it seem a little ridiculous to you?”
“It is neither ridiculous nor strange,” she added, shaking her head; “other ladies go there to retire and pray.”
“Old ladies, I suppose?”
“No,” she insisted coldly; “young ladies, and beautiful too; young married women especially.”
“Who are perhaps in mortal sin. Are you in mortal sin, though I didn’t know it, Vittoria?” he laughed loudly, looking at her.
“I hope not,” she replied, lowering her eyes to hide a sudden flash; “but so many people can be in mortal sin, prayers are necessary for us and them.”
“Even for me, dear nun!” he exclaimed mischievously.
“For you also,” she replied expressionlessly.
“When must you enter?”
“To-morrow evening at eight. To-morrow is the fifteenth of December.”
“When do you come out?”
“On the evening of the twenty-fourth.”
“Have you told mamma this?”
“No; please tell her yourself to-morrow.”
“Perhaps mamma will not approve.”
“She knows what it is a question of,” murmured Vittoria; “all Roman ladies know of this retreat in the monastery of Gesù Bambino. Get her to tell you.”
She blushed slightly. He looked at her, and proceeded more gently with the conversation.
“Are there special prayers in this convent, Vittoria? Are special graces asked for?”
“One grace only,” she replied, with downcast eyes; “one grace only of the Divine Son, Marco.”
“Ah!” he replied without further remark, understanding.
“Do you so very much want to have a son, Vittoria?” he asked in a peculiar tone.
There was a deep silence between them.
“I desire it ardently,” she broke out suddenly, with an impetuous accent, immediately recovering herself, “I desire nothing else now.”
“Also I want one for you,” he said, vaguely and absently.
“Not for yourself?” was the sharp question. But he did not heed the intense expression.
“As for myself, you understand, my brother Giulio has three sons. The house of Fiore has descendants.”
“Beatrice has been fortunate,” she murmured, with a sigh.
“There, there; you, too, will be fortunate,” he resumed jokingly and laughingly; “you will have a quiverful of sons, too many, I tell you, dear Vittoria, for many sons will give you much worry. Don’t doubt; you are not sterile.”
“Who knows,” she said, with a sorrowful shudder.
“Go to your convent, dear, since you are set on it,” he said, laughing; “the Bambino Gesù will content you, and when you return home He will send you the little one.”
He drew near her to kiss and embrace her. With a cold gesture she repulsed him.
“Hoighty, toighty! Hoighty toighty!” he exclaimed; “why all this rudeness to your lawful husband, Don Marco Fiore?” He tried again to draw her to himself and kiss her. Again still more coldly and hostilely she kept him at a distance.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We must live from to-day in prayer and mortification,” she replied in glacial tones.
“Therefore?” he asked.
“You resume from to-night your bachelor bedroom.”
“Ah; and am I to keep it for ten days?” he said drily.
“Yes, for ten days, till my return.”
“Brava! Brava! And if I am bored in there all alone?” he continued, with signs of annoyance.
“Oh, you won’t bore yourself there!” she replied, with a slightly bitter smile.
He remembered that in that room everything had remained untouched since he had married, that it was full of portraits, big and small, of Maria Guasco, with recollections of their dead dream, their dead love. He understood more than ever the depth of his wife’s thoughts and feelings; he realised her intense pain. So he tried again in pity and tenderness to make her speak, to make her weep.
“Vittoria, Vittoria!” he exclaimed in sad reproach, “you as usual are dissimulating and lying, and that makes you suffer and becomes unfair to me. I don’t want to be angry, and you should not suffer.”
“You are mistaken,” she replied coldly, “neither do I suffer nor need you be angry. My confessor has told me that the scope of matrimony is not love but children, that one must ask Heaven for children, and pray very much. I am going to pray.”
“Ah!” he said, suddenly becoming cold, “you are convinced that the scope of matrimony is not love?”
“Quite convinced,” she answered harshly.
“All the worse,” he exclaimed in a bad temper; “all the worse; and when did you decide to enter the convent for the novena?”
The question was direct and sharp. She hesitated to reply.
“When, Vittoria? Think and tell the truth.”
“This evening,” she replied, with an effort.
“This evening? At the ball?” he insisted, still more sharply.
“This evening at the ball,” she assented, growing very pale.
But pity, sentiment without strength, was already extinguished in Marco’s heart, and there was substituted, as in every heart unjustly suspected, a dull and cruel indignation. He shrugged his shoulders, took his fur coat and hat, and left with a dry, “Good-night, Vittoria.”
She had no strength to reply. With difficulty she closed the door of her big room where she was alone, desperately alone. She dared not weep, for fear that he might return and find her weeping, for fear that, not being very far away, he might hear her weeping.