"Why will you not answer me?"
"I should hurt you too much," she murmured.
He began to realise the irreparable ruin of her soul, and was silent. He did not withdraw his hand, but felt his strength deserting him, felt darkness and icy cold creeping over him, as if Maria, whom he had evoked in vain, had died a second time. Anguish, fatigue, the heavy atmosphere, the mingled odours of the room, affected him so strongly that he was obliged to go out, or he would have fainted.
He went to the loggia. The windows were open and the sweet, fresh air restored him. Out there in the dark he wept for his little daughter unrestrainedly, without even that restraint which light imposes. He knelt by one of the windows, crossed his arms on his breast and wept, his face raised towards heaven, tears and words flowing together, disjointed words of anguish and of faith, calling out to God for help, to God, to God who had dealt him the blow. With streaming eyes he cried out, begging that his tears might continue to flow, confessing that he knew full well why the child had died. Had he not prayed again and again that God would preserve her from the danger of losing her faith through her mother's influence? Ah! that last night! That last night when Maria had said to him: "Darling papa, a kiss!" and so many other tender things, and would not let go his hand, how he had prayed! The memory of it was a terror, a joy, a spasm to him. "Lord, Lord!" said he, gazing heavenward. "Thou wert silent, but my voice reached Thee. Thou hast answered my prayer in Thine own mysterious way. Thou hast taken my treasure to Thyself, she is safe, she is happy, she awaits me. Thou wilt reunite us." The fast-falling tears that accompanied his last words had no bitter taste, but presently, while thinking once more of that last night, he was bitterly sorry he had left Maria without telling her that he had deceived her. "Maria, my own Maria!" he entreated, weeping, "forgive me!" Good God! it seemed impossible that all this could be true; it seemed impossible that if he went into the alcove-room he should not find her there asleep in her little bed, her head drooping towards her shoulder and her tiny hands resting, palms upward, upon the sheet. Indeed she was still there, but——! Oh! how awful it all was! Surely his tears would never end.
Leu came in bringing a light and a cup of coffee. The Signora had sent her. He felt a thrill of tender gratitude towards his wife. Good God! Poor Luisa! How hopeless was her grief! And what an awful semblance of punishment for her in the blow which had fallen upon her at that very moment, that very moment! She herself had realised that he must think this, and he did indeed think it, but had denied his thought in order to spare her, and this she had also realised. And was this awful semblance of punishment destined not to bear any fruit whatsoever? She seemed to shrink from God more than ever now, and who could tell how far she might wander! Poor, poor Luisa! It was not Maria he should pray for, Maria did not need his prayers. He must pray for Luisa, pray night and day, trusting also in the prayers of the precious little soul now hidden in God.
He talked with Leu, feeling more calm now, and had her tell him all she had seen, all she had heard of this terrible event. "The Lord wanted your little child for Himself," said Leu at last. "If you could only have seen her in church, with her little folded hands and her serious little face! She looked just like an angel. Indeed she did." Then she asked Franco if she should leave the light. No, he preferred to be in the dark. At what time was the funeral to take place? At eight o'clock, Leu thought. When Leu once began talking it was always hard for her to leave off, and perhaps now she was afraid of staying in the kitchen all alone. "Her papa!" she added, before going out. "Her dear papa! It isn't more than a week ago that I came here with some chestnuts for the Signora, and that blessed little creature, who spoke so well, for all the world like a lawyer, said to me: 'Do you know, Leu, my papa is coming to Lugano very soon, and I am going to see him.' Oh, dear! What a dreadful thing!"
His tears flowed afresh. Ah, God had taken the child to save her from the errors of the world. God had punished Luisa for her errors, but was not this awful punishment intended for him also? Was he not guilty also? Ah, yes! Very, very guilty! A clear vision of his past life rose before him, his life, barren of all useful labour, full of vanities, corresponding ill with the beliefs he professed, a life which rendered him responsible for Luisa's unbelief. The world accounted him virtuous for certain qualities he possessed through no merit of his own, for they were inborn in him, and he felt that for this very reason God's judgment of him must be doubly severe; for God had endowed him richly, and he had gathered no fruit. Once more he fell upon his knees and humbly accepted his punishment, in the desolate contrition of his heart, in his burning desire to expiate, to purify himself, to become worthy of re-union with Maria at last.
A long, long time he prayed and wept. At last he went out to the terrace. Above Galbiga and the hills of the Lake of Como the sky was growing light; day was breaking. From neighbouring Boglia a cold north wind was blowing. From far and near, from the lake shore, from the lofty bosom of the valley, bells rang out. The thought that Maria and Grandmother Teresa were together and happy, rose suddenly, clear and sweet in Franco's heart. It seemed to him the Lord was saying to him: "I afflict thee, but I love thee. Wait, be steadfast, and thou shalt know." The bells chimed far and near, from the lake shore and from the lofty bosom of the valley. The sky grew ever brighter above Galbiga and towards the Lake of Como, along the steep, black profile of the Picco di Cressogno; and the sweep of smooth water down there in the East, between the great shadows of the mountains, was like a shining pearl. The sprays of the passion-flower vine, touched by the north wind, waved silently above Franco's head, in quivering anticipation of the light, of the immense glory that was rising out of the east, colouring clouds and clear sky with itself, and welcomed by the bells.
To live, to live, to work, suffer, adore, and ascend! That was what the light demanded! He must carry the living away in his arms, carry the dead away in his heart, return to Turin, work for Italy, die for her! The dawning day demanded this. Italy! Italy! Beloved Mother! Franco clasped his hands in a transport of desire.
Luisa heard the bells also. She wished that she might not have heard them, wished that day might never dawn, bringing with it the hour in which Maria must be consigned to the grave. On her knees beside her baby's little body she promised her that every day of her life she would come and talk to her, bring her flowers, and bear her company; morning and evening she would come. Then she sank down and gave herself up to those dark thoughts which she had not wished to confess to her husband, and which had grown and matured in her during the last twenty-four hours, as a malignant infection of remote origin which has lain dormant in the system, being caught up at last in the current of the blood, suddenly bursts forth with overwhelming violence.