“But have you no foreign employees at the works?”
“Very seldom. A few from Belgium or from Luxembourg. As few as possible, for they are difficult to deal with.”
“You do not live in this summer-house? You never sleep here?”
“No; there is no convenience—simply a barn above the ground floor, that is all. I live in the house opposite the manager’s. It is small, but very comfortable. My uncle Graff lived there several months.”
“You are very fortunate to have family relations,” said Cesare, in sorrowful tones. “My sister and I are alone—private dissensions have alienated us from the Briviescas. M. Vignola had no relations. We are obliged to be all in all to one another.”
“Your sister is a young and charming lady. She may marry again.”
“She never thinks of it. After all the sorrow caused by her union with M. Vignola, she aspires after nothing but peace and rest. Oh, she has suffered so much! The diseased and unhappy Vignola was madly jealous. He. could not endure his wife to be absent from him a single hour. He must have her constantly before his eyes. He left her a great fortune at his death. Poor compensation for all the tortures he inflicted on her! But now he is dead. Peace to his memory!”
“Your sister has no children?”
“No, sir; that is her greatest sorrow.”
The image of the young woman, in deep mourning, walking sorrowfully about the woods, was evoked in Marcel’s imagination. Very pretty to be inconsolate at the loss of an old husband! How old could she be? Twenty-five years, perhaps, at the most, and no knowledge of life except grief and sadness. Cesare arose, and took his leave. Marcel accompanied him across the garden to the gate, and there said, with a cordial smile—