Could I ever be at peace with her—ever make her happy? Fiesole was so flippant, so casual of all that makes for wifehood. And she was almost right in saying that I had made her what she was—first by my virtue, now by my lack of it. All we could give one another would be passion, swift and self-consuming. Soon would come satiety, the fruit of my doings; after that regret, the fruit of my thoughts. And if we did not marry, I should eat the same fruit, made more bitter by self-scorn.
Marry Fiesole! In marriage lay escape from the penalty of my lifelong lawless curiosity. Walls of children might grow up, responsibilities of domestic affection, giving shelter and security.
This was treachery. Fiesole should never guess I had faltered. The door should be closed on the past——
I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened, I felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to hear it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal for me. It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned fainter and fainter.
Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far up the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled.
The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. “For Monsieur from Madame.”
Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers. The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to twist its words into another meaning.
The note ran:
My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman’s memory; you’ll remember Potiphar’s wife and Joseph. I have tried to hate you intensely. You see, I’m what you made me: Lucrezia—your handiwork. For years I have promised myself that, if ever I had the chance, I would punish you. It was with this intention that I left Paris yesterday—you know the rest. So now, without me in the years that are to come, you will suffer all that you once made me suffer. And I’m almost sorry; for here, at Falaise, you nearly made me.... It can’t be done.
Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris. The cloud of dust had vanished.