"You have let her dance too much this winter," said Laura, addressing him. "You ought to keep her from over-tiring herself."
"It is not easy to prevent Adele from doing anything she wishes to do," answered Savelli. "This winter she has insisted on going everywhere. I have warned her a hundred times, but she would not listen to me, and of course this is the result."
"When did it begin?" asked Ghisleri, who seemed interested in Adele's mysterious illness. "When did you first lose your sleep?"
"You remember," she answered. "We were just talking of our meeting in the street, and the sulphonal. It was about that time—a little before that, of course, for I had been suffering several days when I met you."
"Ah, yes—I remember when that was," said Ghisleri, in a tone of reflection.
He joined in the conversation during a few minutes longer, and then took leave of the three. Formerly he would have gone to spend an hour or two with Maddalena, but he had no inclination to do so now. He would gladly have stayed with Laura if the Savelli couple had not come. He wished to be alone, now, and to think over what he had done. It was the first time that he had ever told the story of his love for Bianca Corleone to any one, and calm as he had seemed while telling it, he had felt a very strong emotion. He was glad to be at home again, alone with his own thoughts, and with the picture that reminded him of the dead woman. He knew that she would have forgiven him for speaking of her to-day as he had spoken, and to such a woman as Laura Arden. For in his heart he compared the two. There had been grand lines in Bianca Corleone's character, as there were in that of her passionate brother, as Ghisleri believed there must be in Laura Arden's also, and great generosities, the readiness to go to any length for the sake of real passion, the power to hate honestly, to love faithfully, and to forgive wholly—all things which Pietro missed in himself. And Laura had to-day waked the memory of that great love which had once filled his existence, and which had not ended with the life that had gone out before its day, in all its beauty and freshness. He was grateful to her for that, and he sat long in his chair after his lonely meal, thinking of her and of the other, and of poor Maddalena dell' Armi, whose very name, sounding in his imagination, sent a throb of remorse through his heart.
A pencil lay near him and he took a sheet of paper and began to write, as he often did when he was alone, scribbling verses without rhyme, and often with little meaning except in their connection with his thoughts. He was no poet.
"A sweet, dark woman, with sad, holy eyes,
Laid her cool hand upon my heart to-day,
And touched the dear dead thing that's buried there.
Her saintly magic cannot make it live,
Nor sting once more with passionate deep thrill
The bright torn flesh where my lost love breathed last.
"She has no miracles for me—nor God
Forgiveness, nor earth healing—nor death fear.
I think I fear life more—and yet, to live
Were easy work, could I but learn to die;
As, if I learned to live, I should hate death.
But I cannot hate death—not even death—
Since that is dead which made death hateful once;
Nor hate I anything; let all live on,
Just and unjust, bad, good, indifferent,
Sinner and saint, man, devil, angel, martyr—
What are they all to me? Good night, sweet rest—
I wish you most what I can find the least.
We meet again soon. Have you heard the talk
About the latest scandal of our town?
No? Nor have I. I care less than I did
About the men and women I have known.
Good night—and thanks for being kind to me."