She closed her eyes, and replied in a choking and desperate voice—
“I will try; I will try.”
“When?” and the question is like a dull roar.
“Later on, later on,” she said, feeling herself lost, but unable to lie.
“No, no,” he roared. “No, this evening, this very evening, in which you have seen him again, in which you have looked at and understood each other.”
* * * * * * * *
It is late in the night, Maria is alone, stretched in her easy-chair, with dishevelled hair, which covers her face. Her hands hang limply with fingers apart, and her eyes are wide open, almost deprived of their glance. With a supreme effort of will she raised her hand and touched the bell. Her head fell back exhausted. The silence around was intense. No one came, and she had no strength left. But a little step draws near, a familiar face bends over her.
“I am dying,” she cries to the faithful girl.
Chiara suddenly becomes strong, lifts her in her arms, holds her up, and begins to take off her ball dress, while Maria every moment seems to be fainting.
“I am dying,” she repeats.