"Let us go, dear, and choose our table; we will place our flowers there."
They chose one in a remote corner of the vast dining-room, and the banality of the table was adorned by the dark gentians, the spiked orchids, and the fresh edelweiss; like two children, looking around and fondling each other's hands, they filled a vase and two glasses with them. Lucio had the two places changed; instead of facing Lilian, he wished to have her beside him and while the waiter withdrew to serve their lunch, seated at the little table, they were alone like two lovers for the first time. Forgetful of everything except their love, they began to talk, turning one to the other, their faces close together, their words subdued, their smiles expressive and suggestive, their glances now laughing and now ardent; their hearts and fibres welled with the deep sweetness of the idyll and ardour of passion. In the dining-room, already more than twenty people were lunching and talking loudly, especially the German gathering; there was a noise of plates and knives, with a smell of food that was diffused in the rather heavy air of the room which was nearly always closed against the cold; but, isolated in their corner, Lilian and Lucio paid no heed to the others. Even they lunched: sometimes their idyll or passion guided their actions, now graciously puerile, now full of an unconquerable trembling, as with a smile and a glance, or a fleeting squeeze of the hand or gesture of tenderness, they lunched like a newly married couple on the first day of their marriage; the man seeking the woman's glass to place his lips where she had placed hers, the woman offering half the fruit which she had eaten, now and then forgetting to eat, to look and smile at each other, as the waiter came and went to and fro, silent, discreet, and indifferent, without attempting to recall them to reality.
At the other tables everyone had finished lunch; the Germans especially rose noisily, the men with their congested faces, the women wearing on their blond, yellowish hair the same masculine hats as their husbands and fathers; but Lucio and Lilian at their table, from which the things had been removed, allowed their coffee to grow cold in their cups, and absently they plucked off the petals of the Alpine orchids and edelweiss with their fingers and scattered them on the table in strange designs. They were now alone at the little table in the corner, and knew nothing of what was happening around them; only the silent, but questioning and respectful presence of the waiter made them rise, after Lucio had paid the bill.
"It will be very cold later for the return," said the waiter suggestively, as if he were inviting them to stay.
A single, intense glance between them told of what they were thinking. Agitatedly Lilian approached the window from which they had looked out without seeing the country; beside them, on a little table, a great book lay open, with white pages signed with signatures, mottoes, and dates, the album of the Bernina Hospice, wherein every passer-by placed his name. To hide her deep confusion, Lilian turned over some pages, stooping to read, almost without understanding, some unknown name, some words of admiration, remembrance, or regret of those who had crossed the Bernina Pass. Suddenly she perceived that Lucio was beside her, and that he, too, was reading; more agitated, she did not turn, as she tried to read more attentively, and together they read a sentence in French, with two signatures, "Vive l'amour.—Laure et Francis."
"Shall we write something, Lilian?" he whispered, with his arm around her waist.
"Yes," she murmured.
They bent over the book together: she wrote first, in French, in a rather trembling handwriting, "À toi, pour la vie, pour la mort.—Lilian." Promptly he wrote after her, in a firm, decisive handwriting, "À toi, pour la vie, pour la mort.—Lucio," and a date. Their glances repeated, affirmed, and swore what they had written, as they went out of the deserted dining-room into the narrow, semi-dark corridor, where there was no one. He kept her for a moment in the half-light; embracing her lightly, he drew her to him, and gave her a long kiss on the lips, a kiss of love, which she returned as well. He felt her reel as if lost; he, too, felt himself overcome with joy. With a supreme effort he took her hand, supported her, and led her away to the staircase of the Hospice, and outside into the full light and open air, where for a moment they stopped half blinded, without seeing anything, without looking at each other, without recognising each other, as if both were lost.
As if an indisputable need constrained them to fly from some unknown danger, they walked along the shores of the four little lakes, stopping to admire the waters. They proceeded to where the tail of the Cambrena glacier descends and winds, and they bent over the spring that gushes from it to bathe their hands, which were on fire; they went further, beyond the yoke and the Bernina Pass, following the carts and carriages which were in motion; they went by a long hill, whence they saw a flock of sheep, with their shepherd and guardian dog, proceeding with slow steps, occasionally halting, and then resuming their way; throughout the summer they had been in the Engadine, and now, driven away by the cold, were descending towards Italy, towards Poschiavo. They went forward themselves on the road to Italy, and saw the little village of La Rosa gleaming white below. They went everywhere, tiring their bodies and their souls.
As the day declined they returned to the door of the Hospice, but neither climbed the stairs again. They remained at the threshold, exchanging some glances full of a silent and immense sadness, but not a word opened their lips to say how immense was their grief. The carriage was ready, and the horses were tinkling their bells; the waiter came down, carrying rugs and cloaks and flowers. Lucio and Lilian jumped into the carriage to return to St. Moritz Dorf. Again they looked at the grey Hospice, which became gloomier in the declining day, in that obscure corner of the earth, amidst its four mysterious lakes, and an immense sadness bade farewell to that tarrying-place of an hour of love. Then they left in silence. Gloomy and stern, with hat almost lowered over his eyes, Lucio first became calm by degrees, while pale and sad, beneath her white veil, Lilian, too, grew calmer. Gradually a gentleness, ever softer and more persuasive, poured itself like balsam over their grief and regret. They drew near to each other, affectionately and simply; a tenderness united their hands and kept them joined, a tenderness flowed from their few words, in their voices, in their names pronounced now and then. A tenderness seized, kept, and dominated them on their return journey, amid the ever-increasing gloom of the twilight, and when they reached their goal, both were exalted by tenderness. But Lucio Sabini was also exalted by renunciation.