“No,” said Claire, still in the same slow, dreamy way, as she strove to listen to her visitor, and at the same time work out in her own mind the meaning of the horrible situation in which her sister was placed.
“She did not tell him? She promised me she would. But the servant told me he knew that May was married.”
“Yes,” stammered Claire; “he knew.”
“I ought to have spoken, but I dared not. I was younger then and so poor. I was obliged to go back to my Italia to try if I could not win fame there and fortune for my little flower of beauty—my May-bud. Claire—dear sister—no, no, you frown—you must forgive us, for we were so young, and we loved so much. Ah, you are not well. I frighten you. I came here so sudden. But my news is so good. I have succeeded so in my art, and I have possessions too. My poor father is dead. I am not a rich man—what you English call rich; but I have enough, and you will forgive me. But, May? She is not here?”
“No, no,” said Claire, with her lips turning ashy pale.
“She is not far away?”
“Not far away,” said Claire, “but Louis, Monsieur Gravani—”
“No, no, not Monsieur—not Signore. I am Louis, your fratello, your brother. Now tell me. My heart beats to be with her once again. She is not changed, I know. The same little angel face that Raffaello painted, and that I have had ever in my heart.”
“No, she is not changed,” sighed Claire.
“No, she could not change. La mia fiorella!”