The voice that came from Mrs. Gonzola’s white lips was red with the blood of her race.
“I must see him.”
“You dare not.”
“Have pity on me.”
“I promised him to keep you away.”
“He will not know.”
“He will know, he must rest in peace.”
They were not mother and daughter; they were enemies.
Mrs. Gonzola turned and went downstairs in silence. She died a few days later without breaking that silence.
Joseph Abravanel had given away what little he possessed during his lifetime; to Julie he left a small Hebrew prayer book, worn with age. Mrs. Gonzola’s will was complicated. She had given generously to the Church for years. Julie was to have the house and contents and the income of what was left, the capital going to the grandchildren on condition of their fidelity to the Church; otherwise it went to support a theological seminary in Rome.