IV.
One day Lucia appeared in the drawing-room with a resolute and almost defiant look on her face. Her nostrils quivered as if they scented powder, and her whole being was ready for battle. Looking elsewhere, while Andrea handed her a cup of coffee, she calmly gave him a note. He trembled all over without losing his presence of mind. He found a pretext to leave the room, and ran down into the courtyard to read it. They were a few burning words of love written in pencil. “He was her Andrea, her own strong love; she loved him, loved him, loved him; her peace was gone, yet she was happy in that she loved, unhappy in not being permitted to love him. They must put a bold face on it ... Alberto and Caterina, poor, poor betrayed ones ... had no suspicions. He, Andrea, should study her, Lucia, so that he might understand what she said to him with her eyes; she was his inamorata, his mate, and she loved her handsome lord....”
All the gloom had vanished. Andrea felt as if joy must choke him. He began to talk loudly to Matteo, the stable-man; called the hounds, Fox and Diana, who leapt upon him; seized Diana by the scruff of her neck; made Fox jump, telling Matteo that he was in his dotage; that the dogs were worth two of him, but that, vice versâ, he was a good bestia. Two ladies’ heads and the small head of a sort of scalded bird, looked down upon him from a window. He called out to the ladies that he proposed a good sharp drive: the ladies, like two princesses in disguise, in the victoria, he and Alberto in the phaeton.
“And how about luncheon?” grumbled the thin voice of Alberto, buried under a woollen scarf.
“Of course, we will lunch first,” he thundered from the courtyard. And he mounted the stairs, four at a time, singing and shaking his leonine mane. When he got to the top, he took Alberto by the throat, and forced him to turn round the drawing-room, in the mazes of the polka.
Lucia watched this violent ebullition of joy, without stirring an eyelash.
“Since you are so gallant, to-day, Andrea,” she said, coolly, “suppose you offered me your arm, to go into lunch. ’Tis a courtesy you are wanting in.”
“I am a barbarian, Signora Sanna. Will you do me the honour to accept my arm?” he said, bowing profoundly.
The two others laughed, and followed, without imitating them. In the gloom of the corridor, Lucia nestled closer to Andrea; he pressed her arm until it hurt her. When they entered the dining-room, they were so rigidly composed that Alberto teased them. Caterina was happy, for her husband had gained his good temper. At table, Lucia’s elbow came several times in contact with Andrea’s sleeve, when she raised her glass to her lips, looking at him through the crystal. He kept his eyes open, casting oblique looks at Alberto and Caterina, but they neither saw nor suspected anything.
“To repay you for the arm that you did not offer me,” said Lucia, with frigid audacity, “I offer a pear, peeled by myself.”
And she handed it to him on the point of the knife. On one side the witch had bitten it with her small, strong teeth. He closed his eyes while he ate it.
“Is it good?” she inquired, gravely.
“Sorry to say so, for your sake; but it was very bad,” he replied, with a grimace of regret. Alberto was fit to die of laughter. That rogue of a Lucia, who seriously offered a bad pear to Andrea, as if in gratitude, as if she were making him a handsome present! What wit! that Lucia! The ladies rose to dress for the drive. The first to return was Caterina, dressed in black, with a jet bonnet. Lucia was away some time, but, as Alberto afterwards remarked, she was worth waiting for. At last she appeared, looking charming, her height somewhat diminished by a dark plaid costume, with a thread of yellow and red running through it. She wore a blue, mannish, double-breasted jacket, with small gold buttons, a high white collar and a felt hat with a blue veil, covering it and her hair. A bewitching, mock traveller, with a little powder on her cheeks to cool their flush.
The victoria and the phaeton were waiting in the courtyard. The ladies entered their carriage and drew the tiger-skin over their knees: the men sprang into the phaeton and bowed to the ladies, who waved their handkerchiefs. Then the little vehicle, driven by Andrea, started at full speed, the other equipage following more slowly. This lasted some time; every now and then they turned back to look at their wives, who were smiling and chatting with each other. Andrea saluted them by cracking his whip. The wind blew fresh, and Alberto, who caught it in his face, doubled himself up for fear of taking cold.
“Ma che!” exclaimed Andrea, “don’t you feel how warm it is? I wish I could take off my coat and drive in shirtsleeves.”
And he goaded on Tetillo until he broke into a canter.
“We are losing sight of the victoria, Andrea,” pleaded Alberto, who thought that canter inopportune.
“Now we will stop and wait for them.”
They were on the road to San Niccolo, between Caserta, and Santa Maria. Andrea got down and stood awaiting the victoria, which arrived almost immediately. Francesco maintained all the gravity of a Neapolitan coachman, although he had whipped up his Mecklenburg trotters. Andrea and Alberto leant against the side of the little carriage, chatting with its occupants.
“Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“Oh! the speed intoxicates me,” replied Lucia.
“It is a lovely day,” added Caterina, simply.
“Yes, but windy,” mumbled Alberto, stretching himself with the weariness of having sat doubled up.
“Well, shall we drive on?” inquired Andrea, impatiently.
“I want to make a proposal,” said Alberto; “I submit it to the consideration of the ladies.”
“Well, make haste about it then.”
“Have pity on a poor invalid and take him into the victoria; it is sheltered from the wind, and this nice rug keeps one’s legs warm.”
“And leave Andrea alone, in the phaeton?” observed Caterina.
“True,” he said, pondering; “how could we manage it? Take him in here, overload the carriage; and then who would drive the phaeton? Would one of you ladies take my place?”
They looked at each other interrogatively, and said, “Yes.” Andrea took no part in the discussion, he listened patiently while he made a fresh knot in his whip.
“Would you, Signora Caterina?” continued Alberto, who had made up his mind to a seat in the victoria; “but no, that wouldn’t do, we should be husband and wife and wife and husband. It would be absurd; people would take us for brides and bridegrooms! Lucia, are you too nervous to get into the phaeton?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said, absently.
“Bé, do me a favour; you go with Andrea. We will ask him to drive slowly, because of your nerves. Will you really do me this favour?”
“Certainly, Alberto mio. I was enjoying being with Caterina, but sooner than you should be exposed to the wind....”
Andrea assisted her to alight; she sprang out lightly, showing a glimpse of a bronze boot. She took leave of Caterina while Alberto ensconced himself well back in the victoria.
“Signora Caterina, you must pardon the exigencies of an invalid. You must fancy yourself a garde-malade.”
She turned her sweet patient smile on him. Andrea and Lucia silently made their way to the phaeton. He helped her up, and then got up himself; then, both turning towards the carriage, waved their hands once more. Then away like the wind.
“Oh! my love, my beautiful love,” murmured Andrea, from whose hands the reins had nearly slipped.
“Run away with me, far away,” she whispered, looking at him with languorous eyes.
“Do not look at me like that, witch,” said Andrea, roughly.
“I love you.”
“And I, and I—you cannot know how I love you.”
“I do, though. Why don’t you write to me?”
“I have written to you, over and over again, and torn the letters up. Oh! Lucia mia, how beautiful you are, and how dear!”
Close to him, in her trim tight-fitting dress, with little crossed feet, with the tender look on her face, shaded by the brim of her hat, she was fascinating. She looked like an enamoured child, with her pink chin, her delicate cheeks, and wind-blown hair.
“I shall drop the reins and kiss you.”
“No; they are watching us.”
“Then why are you so dear? Why is my brain on fire?”
The horse went on at full speed, arching its neck, almost dancing, the other equipage, following at a distance of sixty paces.
“I have suffered the tortures of the damned, these past days.”
“Do not tell it me. I thought I should have died of it. Do you love me?”
“Why do you ask me—you who know so much, you who know all?”
“I know not why,” replied Lucia, in her caressing tones.
“Lucia, you will drive me mad, if you speak in that voice. Shall I run away with you here, on the high-road?”
“Yes, yes, run away with me. That is what I wish, that you should run away with me.” Her eye, her lips, her little foot so close to him, all added to the provocation of her words.
“Have pity on me, my love; you see that I am dying for love of you.”
For a few minutes there was silence. He looked straight before him, biting his lips, for fear of yielding to the temptation. But it was too strong for him, he could not help looking at her. She was smiling at him with a feverish and caressing smile, her teeth gleaming between her lips.
“How dear you are! Why are you laughing?”
“I am not laughing, I am smiling.”
“Sometimes, Lucia, I am afraid of you.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I don’t know. I do not know you well. And you, you are so completely mistress of yourself. I am entirely yours; so much your slave, that I tremble.”
“Did not you say that you were ready for anything?”
“And I say it again.”
“’Tis well, keep your courage in readiness.”
She had grown serious again—a great furrow crossed her brow, her eyebrows were puckered, her eye sinister.
“Oh! do not say these things to me, do not be so austere; smile again, smile as before, I entreat you.”
“I cannot smile,” said Lucia, harshly.
“If you will not smile, I will drive this trap into that heap of stones, and we shall be thrown out and killed,” said Andrea, in a rage. She smiled with a strange ferocity, saying tenderly:
“I love you. You are mad and boyish, that is what pleases me.”
Andrea instinctively pulled at his reins; the pace slackened.
“Oh! Lucia, you are a witch.”
“You will never recover, I shall be your disease, your fever, your irreparable mischief.”
“Oh! be my health, my strength, my youth!”
“Fire is better than snow, torture is more exquisite than joy, disease is more poetic than health,” said Lucia in ringing tones, her head erect, her eyes flashing, dominating him. Andrea bowed his head; he was subjugated.
At Santa Maria, on the way home, the two equipages stopped, the victoria had caught up the phaeton. They conversed from one carriage to another. Alberto said he was very comfortable, and that he had made the Signora Caterina explain to him how to make mulberry syrup. It was so good for bronchial complaints. He had described his journey to Paris to her. Caterina nodded acquiescingly; she was never bored. Then they started again, the trap on before, the carriage following. The sun was going down.
“Oh, dio! are we going back? We are going back,” moaned Lucia; “this lovely day is coming to an end. Who knows when we shall have another?”
“What dark thoughts! Do not torment yourself with dreams, Lucia. The reality is that I love you; ’tis a fair reality.”
“We are evil-doers.”
“Lucia, you are striving to poison this hour of happiness.”
“And what man are you, if you cannot bear sorrow? What cowardice is this! Is all your strength in your muscles? I have loved you because I believed in your strength.”
“I am weak in your hands. Your voice alone can either sadden or revive me. You can give me strength or deprive me of it. Do not abuse your power.”
They were on the verge of a sentimental wrangle, whither she had been leading him since the beginning of the drive.
“Love is no merry prank, Andrea; remember, love is a tragedy.”
“Do not look at me like that, Lucia. Smile on me as you did before; we were so happy, just now.”
“We cannot always be happy. Happiness is sin, happiness is dearly bought....” sententiously.
He turned his face away, profoundly saddened. He no longer goaded his horse, and Tetillo had subsided into a slow trot. Turning, Lucia beheld the victoria approaching. “On, on, Andrea,” she said; “faster, faster!” The little trap flew like an arrow. She passed one arm through the arm of the driver, and with head erect, and hair blown about by the breeze, she gave herself up to the pleasure of the race.
“This is the steppe, the steppe,” she murmured, with a sigh.
“Love, love, love!” repeated Andrea, in the excitement of their speed. The phaeton sped on; they no longer looked behind them, nor saw the double row of trees that flew past them, nor the people who met them, nor the cloud of dust from the road. The little carriage flew, assuming a fantastic aspect, like that of a winged car.
“Give me a kiss,” said Andrea.
“No, they are behind us; they can see us.”
“Give me a kiss.”
Then she opened her white linen sunshade, lined with blue, and put it behind her; that dome screened them both and hid their two heads. Before them, no one, no one in the fields; and while the carriage sped along in the broad light of day, they kissed each other lingeringly on the lips.