"Always. All our lives. Only death, longed-for death, will free us," said Lucio with a sigh.
They gradually drew near to the pier of San Marco; the lagoon was full of gondolas, white and red lights caught the steamer and showed up faces.
"Listen, Vittorio," said Lucio, placing a hand tenderly on his friend's arm, "your love adventure has caused you to suffer much; but to-morrow you will be healed, because you have no remorse, because you have accomplished a lofty duty of honour in destroying your happiness; but you have no remorse. Create none, Vittorio. When at last the beautiful, dazzling figure of Mabel Clarke has vanished from your spirit, love your wife, who is good and sweet, who has been humble and patient, who is fond of you, and attends your good. Love her, not another woman; love her, and never the woman of another. Vittorio, don't be lost as I am lost; don't throw to the monster adultery—your flesh, and senses, and heart. Don't create for yourself remorses which will render your life a place of torment as it is for me."
They reached the Riva degli Schiavoni, the waters were astir with gondolas, and the Riva with people, and full of light and bustle. They went ashore together. They stood silently for a few moments before separating, while around them life was humming, though pale and exhausted they were unaware of it.
"Do you remember Chassellas?" asked Lucio, with singular sweetness.
"Yes, I remember it. I went there with Mabel," replied the other, with repressed emotion.
"Do you know the little Engadine cemetery near there?"
"I know it, we gathered flowers there one day, Mabel and I."
"Lilian is buried there; not far from poor Massimo Granata. I too shall sleep there one day; the soonest possible, Vittorio."
Vittorio, pale and exhausted, looked at him.