XVII
"I will not expect you to wear it, but you must keep it sacred, as a relic. It was the best thing she possessed," said Gesa to Annette, when he gave her Guiseppina's cross.
He had told the girl about the pale singer and the touching manner in which she had offered her gift. Annette had kissed the cross on the threshold of the house, when she stood to take leave of him. "My father will not be home before midnight"--she whispered "farewell"--whereupon at first he looked most longingly in her face, and then yielding to her decision, said quietly--"To-morrow." And now he sat in his old attic room, opposite, and mused the evening through. His veins throbbed with a happiness that was painfully sweet. Never had Annette appeared to him so enchantingly beautiful, never had she met him with such heart-winning gentleness. The memory of her tender smile, of her great dark eyes softened his heart like a caress.
But she was ill. A cold shudder broke his warm dream. She was very ill.
A fearful anxiety overcame him. The heavy, sultry air of the coming tempest brooded without, and from the street below rose an odor of filth and decay.
He looked across at Annette's window; it was open. A delicate head appeared there, listening. Against the wall in the pale moonlight a dainty silhouette was thrown.
"Annette!" cried Gesa, across the sleeping street.
Through the dusk he saw her smile.
"Good-night!" she breathed, laid both hands on her lips and sent him one kiss. Then she disappeared. A heavy silence settled down on the Rue Ravestein.
Dizzy and drunk with happiness, that smile in his heart, Gesa von Zuylen laid himself down and fell asleep.