“Madonna Paola is dead,” he told me, with a sob.
I stared at him in speechless consternation, and for a moment I seemed forlorn of sense and understanding.
“Dead?” I remember whispering. “What is it you say?” And I leaned forward towards him, peering into his face. “What is it you say?”
“Well may you doubt your ears,” he groaned. “But, Vergine Santissima! it is the truth. Madonna Paola, that sweet angel of God, lies cold and stiff. They found her so this morning.”
“God of Heaven!” I cried out, and leaving him abruptly I dashed down the steps.
Scarce knowing what I did, acting upon an impulsive instinct that was as irresistible as it was unreasoning, I made for the apartments of Madonna Paola. In the antechamber I found a crowd assembled, and on every face was pallid consternation written. Of my own countenance I had a glimpse in a mirror as I passed; it was ashen, and my hollow eyes were wild as a madman’s.
Someone caught me by the arm. I turned. It was the Lord Filippo, pale as the rest, his affectations all fallen from him, and the man himself revealed by the hand of an overwhelming sorrow. With him was a grave, white-bearded gentleman, whose sober robe proclaimed the physician.
“This is a black and monstrous affair, my friend,” he murmured.
“Is it true, is it really true, my lord?” I cried in such a voice that all eyes were turned upon me.
“Your grief is a welcome homage to my own,” he said. “Alas, Dio Santo! it is most hideously true. She lies there cold and white as marble, I have just seen her. Come hither, Lazzaro.” He drew me aside, away from the crowd and out of that antechamber, into a closet that had been Madonna’s oratory. With us came the physician.