IV.
"It was a bright morning that Camillo carried Luigi in his gondola to the convent. He had merely said to him that there was a beautiful abbess to paint, an old friend of his; and Luigi replied that he would always willingly desert beautiful waters and skies for beautiful eyes. They reached the island"—
The Marchesa beat the floor slowly with her foot, and controlled herself, as if a spasm of mortal agony had seized her.
"They reached the island, and stepped ashore into the convent garden. They went into the little parlor, and presently the abbess entered veiled. My brother, who had not seen her since she was his playmate, could not pierce the veil; and as calmly as ever told her briefly the name of his friend, said a few generous words of him, and, rising, promised to call at sunset for Luigi, and departed."
The Marchesa now spoke very rapidly.
"I do not well know—nobody knows—but Sulpizia raised her veil, and Luigi adjusted his easel. He painted—they conversed—the day fled away. Sunset came. Camillo arrived in his gondola, and Luigi came out without smiling. The gondoliers pulled toward the city.
"'Is she beautiful?' asked Camillo.
"'Wonderful,' responded his friend, and said no more. He trailed his hands in the water, and then wiped them across his brow. He took off his hat and faced the evening breeze from the sea. He cried to the gondoliers that they were lazy—that the gondola did not move. It was darting like a wind over the water.
"The next day they returned to the island—and the next. But at sunset, Luigi did not come to the gondola. Camillo waited, and sat until it was quite dark. Then he went through the garden of the convent, and inquired for the painter. They sought him in the parlor. He was not there. The abbess was not there. Upon the easel stood her portrait partly finished—strangely beautiful. Camillo had followed into the room, and stood suddenly before the picture. He had not seen Sulpizia since she was a child. Even his fancy had scarcely dreamed of a face so beautiful. His knees trembled as he stood, and he fell before it in the attitude of prayer. The last red flash of daylight fell upon the picture. The eyes smiled—the lips were slightly parted—a glow of awakening life trembled all through the features.
"The strong man's heart was melted, and the nuns beheld him kneeling and weeping before the portrait of their abbess.
"But where was she?
"Nobody knew. There was no clue—except that the gondola of the convent was gone.
"Camillo took the portrait and stepped into his gondola. He returned to the city, to the palace of Sulpizia's parents. Slowly he went up the great staircase, dark and silent, up which his eager steps had followed the flying feet of Sulpizia. He entered the saloon slowly, like a man who carries a heavy burden—but rather in his heart than in his hands.
"'It is all that remains to you of your daughter,' said he in a low voice, throwing back his cloak, and revealing the marvellous beauty of their child's portrait to the amazed parents. Then came the agony—a child lost—a friend false.
"Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt my heart wither and grow old. My mother was grieved in her heart for her son's sorrow—in her pride for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile any more. Her step was no longer bounding upon the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she married the Marchese Cicada.
"The next day, Camillo returned to the island. The abbess had not returned, nor had any tidings been received. Only the gondola had been found in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. A new abbess was chosen. The church did not dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no proof that she had willingly gone away. It might be supposed—it could not be proved. Camillo hung in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a black veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He did not seem altered. He was still calm and grave—still cold and sweet in his general intercourse.
"My friendship with him became more intimate. He saw that I was much changed—for although pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. People who suffer intensely often forget that there are other sufferers in the world, you know. Camillo was very tender toward me, for he thought that I was paying the penalty of too warm a sympathy with him, and often begged me not to wear away my health and youth in commiseration for what was past and hopeless. I cultivated my consciousness of his suffering as a defence against my own. We never mentioned the names of either of those of whom we were always thinking; but once in many months he would call me into his chamber and remove the veil from the portrait, while we stood before it as silent as devotees in a church before the picture of the Madonna. Camillo pursued his affairs—the cares of his estate—the duties of society. He assembled all the strangers of distinction at his table. Yes, it was a rare and great triumph.
"For myself, I was mistress of my secret, and I reveal it to you for the first time. Why not? I am seventy years old. You know none of the persons—you hear it as you would read a romance. My heart was broken—my faith was lost—and I have never met since any one who could restore it. I distrust the sweetest smile if it move me deeply, and although men may sometimes be sincere, yet sorrow is so sure that we must steer by memory, not by hope. In this world we must not play that we are happy. That play has a frightful forfeit. Society is wise. It eats its own children, whose consolation is that after this world there is another—and a better, say the priests. Of course—for it could not be a worse.