“Buona notte, Signora.”
He did not smile, but gazed at her with earnest gentleness, and still with that lustrous look in his eyes, full of tenderness and protection.
“Buon riposo, Signora.”
He went away, surely relieved to go. At the door he said again:
“Buon riposo.”
The door was shut.
“Buon riposo!”
Hermione repeated the words to herself.
“Riposo!”
The very thought of repose was like the most bitter irony. She walked up and down the room. To-night there was no stability in her. She was shaken, lacerated mentally, by sharply changing moods that rushed through her, one chasing another. Scarcely had Gaspare gone before she longed to call him back, to force him to speak, to explain everything to her. The fear that cringed was suddenly replaced by the fear that rushes forward blindly, intent only on getting rid of uncertainty even at the cost of death. Soldiers know that fear. It has given men to bayonet points.