‘He added that if you married again he thought it would be your duty to marry Baldassare—your duty before God and your duty to society. Yes, dear, what did you say?’
Maria had uttered a little exclamation and had turned her face quite away.
For the first time since her friend had known her the tears overflowed, and Giuliana, leaning forwards a little, could just see two glistening drops on her pale cheek. When Maria turned again she shook her head slowly.
‘No,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is too much, it is too generous. I must never marry him. I must never think of him again. I promised Diego that I would tear the memory from my heart, and I must. God help me, for I must.’
Giuliana opened her little bag, a marvel of workmanship fresh from Paris.
‘Here is the letter, Maria,’ she said. ‘You must have it now, for it freely gives you back the promise you made. Read it when you are alone.’
Maria took the letter in silence; and under her black fur-lined cloak, heavy with crape, she loosened her dress and laid the sealed envelope upon her bare neck, a little to the left, where she had laid the letter the monk had given her from Castiglione, some two months ago, that seemed like ages of ages now.
Just then the horses stopped at the top of the hill, where a lane turns to the right, leading to Acqua Santa and the golf links. A large closed carriage with black horses and plain black liveries was coming rapidly from the opposite direction.
As it passed the phaeton Giuliana and Maria bowed far forwards, for there was a cardinal inside whom they both knew, an old man and a good one. In answer to their salutation he smiled, and Maria saw the aged hand, white and ungloved, lifted at the open window to give a blessing that might have seemed prophetic just then.