The woman, little by little, recovered her deep goodness of heart, felt again her old tenderness for the beautiful creature in whose personality she had once deceived her desire to love the good sister, Sofia. She thought again of the hours passed in the lonely villa on that hill of Settignano, where Lorenzo Arvale created his statues in the fulness of his strength and fervor, ignorant of the blow that was about to fall. She lived again in those days, saw again those places; she sat once more in memory for the famous sculptor who modeled her in clay, while Donatella sang some quaint old song; and the spirit of melody animated at once the model and the effigy, and her thoughts and that pure voice and the mystery of Art composed an appearance of a life almost divine in that great studio open on all sides to the light of heaven, whence Florence and its river was visible in the springtime valley.
In addition to fancying the girl a reflection of Sofia, had she not been attracted otherwise to her—the sweet Donatella, who never had known a mother's caress since her birth? She saw her again, grave and calm beside her father, the comfort for his hard work, guardian of the sacred flame, and also of a resolve of her own—a secret resolve, which preserved itself as bright and keen as a sword in its sheath.
—She is sure of herself; she is mistress of her own power. When at last she knows she is free, she will reveal herself as one made to rule. Yes, she is made to subjugate men, to excite their curiosity and their dreams. Even now, her instinct, bold and prudent as experience itself, directs her.—La Foscarina remembered Donatella's attitude toward Stelio on that night; her almost disdainful silence, her brief, dry words, her manner of leaving the table, her disappearance, leaving the image of herself framed within the circle of an unforgettable melody. Ah, she knows the art of stirring the soul of a dreamer. Certainly he cannot have forgotten her. And just as certainly he awaits the hour when it shall be given him to meet her again—not less impatiently than she, who asks me where he is.—
Again she lifted the letter and ran her eyes over it, but her memory traveled faster than her eyes. The enigmatic query was at the foot of the page, like a half-veiled postscript. Looking at the written words, she felt again the same sharp pang as when she read them the first time, and once more her heart was shaken as if the danger were imminent, as if her passion and her hope were already lost beyond recall.—What is she about to do? Of what is she thinking? Did she expect him to search for her without delay, and, disappointed in that, does she now wish to tempt him? What does she intend to do?—She struggled against that uncertainty as against an iron door which she must force in order to find again behind it the light of her life.—Shall I answer her? Suppose I reply in such a way as to make her understand the truth, would my love necessarily be a prohibition of hers?—But here her soul rose with a mingled feeling of repugnance, modesty, and pride.—No, never! Never shall she learn of my wound from me—never, not even should she question me!—And she realized all the horror of an open rivalry between a woman no longer young and a girl strong in her maiden youth. She felt the humiliation and cruelty of such an unequal struggle. "But if not Donatella, would it not be some one else," again whispered the contrary spirit "Do you believe you can bind a man of his nature to your melancholy passion? The only condition under which you should have allowed yourself to love him, and to offer him a love faithful unto death, was in keeping the compact that you have broken."
"True, true!" she murmured, as if answering a distinct voice, in formal judgment, pronounced in the silence by invisible Fate.
"The only condition on which he can now accept your love, and recognize it, demands that you leave him free, that you give up all claim on him, that you renounce all, forever, and ask for nothing—the condition of being heroic. Do you understand?"
"True, true!" she repeated aloud, raising her head.
But the poison bit her. She remembered all the sweetness of caresses—the lips, the eyes, the strength and ardor of the lover had re-animated all her being.
A far-away monotonous sound of song floated in the air—a song of women's voices, that seemed to rise from bosoms oppressed, from throats as slender as reeds, like the sound evoked from the broken wires of old spinets at a touch on the worn keys; a shrill, unequal tone, in a lively and vulgar rhythm, which sounded sadder in that light and silence than the saddest things of life.
"Who is singing?"