Whenever he called her by her real name, his heart beat faster, as if something more deeply human had entered into his love, as if suddenly her whole past had seized once more the figure he was pleased to isolate in his dream, and as if innumerable threads formed a bond uniting it more closely than ever to implacable life.
"Come! Let us go!"
She smiled pensively.
"But why? The house is very near. Let us pass it by the Calle Gambara. Do you not wish to know the story of the Countess of Glanegg? Look! One would think it a convent."
The street was deserted as the path leading to a hermitage; it was gray, damp, strewn with dead leaves. The east wind had brought a light, warm mist that softened all sounds.
"Behind those walls, a desolate soul survives the beauty of its body," said La Foscarina softly. "Look! The windows are closed, the blinds are nailed, the doors are sealed. Only one door is still open for the servants, and through it they carry the dead woman her nourishment, though she is walled up as if in an Egyptian tomb. The servants feed a body that no longer has the spirit of life."
The naked trees, which rose to the top of the cloister-like enclosure, looked almost smoky in the mist; the sparrows, more numerous than the leaves, twittered incessantly.
"Guess the Countess's name, Stelio. It is beautiful and rare—as beautiful as if you had originated it."
"I do not know."