Mila, being left alone, was very near fainting; she staggered to the door and bolted it; then she knelt on the floor beside her bed, hid her face in her hands, and remained there absorbed by her suffering. But she had ceased to weep, and grief gave place to an excitement instinct with strenuous and ardent aspirations. Pier-Angelo's optimism, that faith in destiny which is a sort of superstition in stout hearts, awoke within her. She rose, rearranged her hair, looked in her mirror, and said aloud, as she resumed her work:
"I don't know why, nor when, nor how, but he shall love me; I have a right to desire it, I do desire it, and God will assist me!"
When Michel returned, he found her tranquil and lovely, gazing intently at a copy of the Virgin of the Chair, which he had made for her with much care, and which she had hung, not in her alcove, but above her mirror. He congratulated himself that he had allowed her to give way freely to her first outburst of grief, and that she had recovered her strength of will in her solitary meditation. He almost reached her side before she heard him; but she saw his face in the glass as he leaned over her to kiss her on the neck.
"Kiss me there," she said, offering him her cheek, "but never on my neck!"
"Why that prohibition for your brother, little madcap?"
"It is a whim of mine," she said. "You are beginning to have a beard and I don't want you to scratch my skin."
"Ah! you flatter me exceedingly," laughed Michel; "that fear does too much honor to my budding moustache! I had no idea that it could frighten anybody as yet! But do you care less for the smoothness of your cheek than of your pretty neck, little Mila? Is that because you have just been admiring this beautiful Madonna's neck?"
"Perhaps so!" she said. "It is very beautiful, really, and I would like to resemble that face in every feature."
"I should judge that you were making the attempt before your mirror. These are very profane ideas to indulge in before that holy image!"
"No, Michel," replied Mila, gravely. "There is nothing profane in my conception of her beauty. I have never understood it as I have to-day, and I fancied that no one had ever been able to create so beautiful a face as Princess Agatha's. But I see now that Raphael went farther. He gave his Madonna more strength of character, if not more tranquillity. That divine face is intensely alive; it has a great deal of will; it is sure of itself. She is the most virtuous, but, also, the most loving of women. She seems to say: 'Love me because I love you.'"