“I don’t care to,” said she, raising her languid eyelids. “Will you go out, Alberto?”
“I don’t care to,” repeated the latter.
“I don’t know, perhaps I shan’t go either,” murmured Andrea. But after breakfast, when they met in the drawing-room, his impatience would get the better of him, and he rose to go out. Sometimes he succeeded in dragging Alberto with him in the phaeton; he drove him to Marcianise, to Antifreda, or as far as Santa Maria. They drove up and down the high-roads in the soft, mild autumn weather. Alberto, meagre and undersized, in an overcoat buttoned up to his eyes, with a silk muffler round his throat and a rug over his knees, was a striking contrast to the vigorous young man with the curled moustache at his side, attired in light clothes, and wearing an eagle’s feather in his grey huntsman’s hat. Andrea was a good whip, but he sometimes slackened the reins when they were on the high-road, so that the horses started off at a pace that alarmed Alberto.
One evening he said to his wife: “Andrea has homicidal intentions towards me.”
She looked fixedly at him, as if questioning his jesting tone.
When, during these drives, Alberto was inclined for conversation, he talked of his favourite subjects, his health and his wife ... he vaunted Lucia’s beauty, the depth of her genius, the brightness of her repartee. He would sometimes smilingly add details that irritated Andrea, who had an aversion for the morbid confidences of his enamoured guest. Then he would whip up his horses violently, cracking his whip like a carrier, and indulging in a wild race along the high-road.
“You are as prudish as a vestal,” sneered Alberto, more and more convinced that the muscles of these very robust men are developed to the detriment of their nerves. Strong men are cold, a reflection which consoled Alberto, who was a weak man.
They returned to Centurano at a furious pace. Scarcely had they turned the corner, when they perceived a white handkerchief waving from the balcony; it was Lucia, tall, beautiful, and supremely elegant, saluting them, waiting for them. Sometimes Caterina’s smiling face was visible, behind Lucia. She did not come forward, because she dreaded the remarks of her neighbours, who did not approve of public demonstrations of affection between husband and wife. Then Andrea cried, Hip, hip, to Pulcinella, and the fiery mare tore up the hill at full speed; he bowed rapidly to the balcony, and turning the corner in splendid style, achieved a triumphal entry into the courtyard. Lucia generally descended the stairs to meet them, to inquire how Alberto felt and shake hands with Andrea, whom she complimented on his charioteering. Caterina was never there, she was occupied with the last orders for dinner, for she knew how Andrea disliked waiting.
One of the reasons for which Andrea had longed for the closing of the Exhibition, was that he might have time for shooting. Of this his wife, who had passed five or six dreary days last year alone waiting for him, a prey to a melancholy alien to her well-balanced temperament, was well aware. So that this year she was afraid lest he should absent himself too long and too often; an act her guests might deem discourteous. He had said nothing about it, but from one moment to another she expected to hear him say, “I leave to-morrow.” Yet he said nothing, until, between two yawns, Alberto asked him:
“About shooting, Andrea, shan’t you get any?”