"None!" He could not understand why she should ask the question.
"Then--then----" she stammered, "why not obtain a divorce?"
He gazed at her for an instant. "And you could then consent to be my wife? You, the beautiful, idolized Countess Erika Lenzdorff, the wife of a poor, divorced artist?"
"Yes," she replied, firmly. Then, offering him her hand, and once more lifting to his her clear, pure eyes, she left the church. In an inspired frenzy of self-sacrifice, as it were, she crossed the Piazza, where the grass grew between the uneven stones of the pavement, and above which the gray clouds were floating.
She was as if borne aloft by an inspiration that elevated her whole being. Suddenly she became aware of a discord in her sensations. On her ear there fell, sung to the tinkling accompaniment of a guitar,--the words,--
"Tu m'hai bagnato il seno mio di lagrime,
T'amo d'immenso amor."
Looking up, she perceived the same repulsive musicians that had so shocked her awhile ago on the Piazza San Stefano.
She hastened her steps; but the sound long pursued her, 'T'amo d'immenso amor!' until it died away with a last 'amor.'
She frowned. She was indignant, that the wondrous, sacred word should be thus profaned.
There was no brightness in the future to which Erika looked forward. Of this she was fully aware. They must go forth into the world, he and she, with none to wish them God-speed, none to bless them. And yet the melancholy which shrouded their love made it doubly dear to her. The craving for suffering which for some time past had thrilled her excited nerves now stirred within her. Had she not been seeking it lately everywhere,--in poetry, in music, in art?