“And that anything that makes them sad must be wicked?”
“Fiesole,” I said, “have you been sad?”
She would not answer, but drew herself back into the shadow so I could not see her expression. We sat silent, fingering our glasses, giving ourselves over to the languor of the summer’s night. Through the rapturous stillness we heard the breeze from the mountains rustling across the Emilian plain like a woman in silk attire. At a neighboring table a man and a girl, thinking themselves unobserved, swayed slowly towards one another and kissed, as though constrained by some power stronger than themselves. Through the golden windows of the tavern across the way, one could see the silhouettes of men and women trail stealthily across the white-washed walls. The spirit of Lucrezia and her lover-poets seemed to haunt Ferrara that night.
“You’re going to Venice,” I said abruptly. “So am I. Perhaps we shall meet there.”
“Perhaps.”
“We might travel there together.”
“I should be glad.”
We rose from the table. It was late. The piazza was growing empty. The apple-green shutters before the windows of the houses were closed. Behind some of them were lights which threw gold bars on the pavement. The streets were silent.
“How did you know that I would be here?” I asked.
“You forget—you left me your addresses.”