III
Twilight was descending like a rain of gray ashes. Sofia, standing at the window that opened out on to the balcony, was gazing down into the crowded, noisy street. It was the hour in which the Via Toledo becomes dangerous because of the great number of large and small carriages that pass up and down in a continuous stream. Sofia seemed looking for some one; suddenly a vivid flush passed over her face, she bent her head slightly, then suddenly paled, and turned back into the room. A minute later Lulu entered like a whirlwind, slamming doors, overturning chairs that she might hurry the more.
“What are you doing here, Donna Sofia Santangelo? Are you reading?”
“Yes, I was reading.”
“And you did not even care to stand on the balcony?”
“And if I had?”
“Pshaw! I had to stay upstairs, for Albina, the dressmaker, had brought my gown for this evening, and all the while I was trembling with impatience, for I wanted to be here. Yesterday evening I told Roberto to wear his gray overcoat, to have Selim harnessed to the cart, and to pass at half-past six. Who knows if he obeyed me!”
“Roberto passed here in the cart, and wearing his gray overcoat.”
“Good gracious! How do you know all this? I thought you were reading?”
“I was in the window.”
“And you recognized Roberto, although you never look at him? Wonderful! Did he bow to you?”
“Yes.”
“How did he take off his hat?”
“Why—as he always does.”
“And you bowed to him?”
“Do you think me lacking in manners?”
“At least you smiled at him?”
“No—that is, I do not know.”
“You are not nice, Sofia. And yesterday evening Roberto spoke to me about you.”
“Telling you that I was not nice?”
“No, but asking me the cause of your reserved character, so different from mine. Then I recited a fine panegyric to him; I told him that you were better, more amiable, more loving than I, that your only fault was in concealing all these good qualities. Only fancy, he listened to me with the greatest interest; finally, he asked me about your aversion to him—”
“Aversion!”
“That is what he said, and, do you know, he is not so entirely wrong; you treat him with so little cordiality. But even on this point I defended you; I told a fib, for I said that you liked him very much indeed, and that you esteemed him greatly—”
“Lulu!”
“I know that it is not true, but Roberto is so fond of you, is it not ungrateful of you to treat him like a stranger?”
Sofia threw her arms around her sister’s neck and kissed her; Lulu held her for an instant, and murmured in a caressing voice:
“Why do you not love Roberto a little?”
The other made a sudden abrupt movement and drew away, without saying a word.
“Oh, well!” said Lulu, shrugging her shoulders and changing the subject. “Are you really not coming with us this evening?”
“No, I have a headache; you can go with mama.”
“As usual. I shall go just the same, because I shall have a very good time.”
“Is—Roberto going with you?”
“No; he is going to his club, where there is a directors’ meeting. I am going to profit by it and go to the Dellinos’ ball, and shall dance until to-morrow morning.”
“And when he knows of it?”
“So much the better. He will learn from now on to leave me free; I do not wish him to acquire bad habits.”
“You love him very little, it seems to me.”
“Very much, in my own way. But I must hurry away to dress. It will take me at least two hours.”
Sofia stood listening to the noise of the departing carriage which bore away her mother and sister. She was left alone, quite alone, as she had always wished to be left. As a child, when some wrong or injustice had been done her, she had cried all alone, when she was in bed, in the dark, and the habit had remained with her. Now, alone in the great drawing-room, beneath the brightly lighted chandelier, her hands inert, her head resting against the back of her chair, her face wore an expression of great sorrow, the vivid reflection of a serious inward conflict. Certainly in these moments of complete solitude the consciousness of a great grief came over her; the sentiment of the reality, long repulsed, became clear, distinct, cruel.
The sound of footsteps startled her. It was Roberto. Seeing her alone, he paused, hesitating; but supposing the rest of the family to be in another room, he advanced. Sofia had risen at once, agitated.
“Good evening, Sofia.”
“Good evening—”
They were both embarrassed.
“Heavens, how unpleasant this Sofia is!” thought Roberto.
Meanwhile the girl recovered herself, composing her features, which once more took on a severe expression. They sat down at some distance from each other.
“Your mother is well?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“And—Lulu?”
“She, too, is very well.”
There was silence. Roberto experienced a strange sensation as of joy filled with bitterness.
“Lulu is occupied?” he asked.
Sofia checked a slight movement of impatience.
“She is at the Dellinos’ ball with mama,” she continued rapidly, as if to anticipate other questions.
Since Sofia was alone, then, and if he did not wish to be the most discourteous of men, he ought to remain and chat with her. At this thought Roberto was seized with an almost irresistible desire to flee. Yet he did not move.
“I came here because there was not the required number of us at my club,” he finally said, as if to excuse his presence.
“Lulu did not expect you—I am sorry—”
“Oh, it does not matter,” interrupted Roberto.
The interruption was too quick, and hardly flattering to the absent one.
“And you did not go?” he resumed.
“No, you know I am not very fond of balls.”
“Do you prefer reading?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Are you not afraid of doing yourself harm?”
“I have good eyes,” replied Sofia, raising them to the face of her questioner.
“And beautiful ones,” thought Roberto, “but expressionless. I meant—”
“Moral injury, perhaps. I do not think so. From the books that I read I always derive great peace.”
“Do you need peace?”
“We all need peace.”
Sofia’s voice was grave, resonant. Roberto took pleasure in it, as though he were hearing it for the first time. He seemed to find himself face to face with a woman hitherto unknown to him, and who was revealing herself to him in every word and gesture. Sofia had lost her coldness, she even looked at him, smiled at him, and spoke to him as to a friend. What had been between them before this? What was happening now?
“When I like a book,” continued Roberto, “I always feel the greatest desire to know the author, to know if he or she is good, if he has suffered, if he too has loved—”
“Perhaps you would be disillusioned. Authors always describe the love of others, never their own.”
“Possibly out of respect?”
“From jealousy, I think. There are cases in which love is the only treasure hidden in a soul.”
But the voice of Sofia did not change as she said these words. Her face wore such a frank expression, her tone was so simple, so pure, so convinced, that Roberto felt no surprise at hearing her discuss love with such sureness. Nothing now surprised him; everything seemed natural, to be expected. Even this evening, passed alone with this strange girl, seemed to him something predestined and long awaited. When they separated they gazed directly into each other’s faces, as though they wished to be sure of recognizing each other again. Sofia held out her hand, Roberto took it and bowed over it; a portière fell heavily behind him. They were parted.
When the charm of Sofia’s presence and conversation had ceased, Roberto felt confused, his brain in a turmoil. He was both gay and melancholy, would have liked to die, and was yet full of life. He did not know what to think of Lulu, of himself, or of his future.
Sofia was very happy, very happy. For this reason she wept, sobbing heartily, her head buried in her pillow.