"Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome, and after a short time they were married. I was the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, who were glad enough so to cover what they called their daughter's shame. My mother would not come, but left Venice that very day and died abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were not comprehended; but the old friends of the family came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, which my brother scrupulously returned.
"You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of mournful peace after the dark days of the last few years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight. She faded day by day. It was clear to us that the end was not far away.
"Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying upon a couch in the room behind us, where you have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my brother's chamber. All the long windows and doors were open and we sat by her side, talking gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand, but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, there was one bitter drop that had been spared him.
"Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her eyes were open and her glance was toward the window, but her few words showed her mind to be wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's face and drew it toward her own with infinite tenderness. His listening soul heard one word only—the glimmering phantom of sound—it was 'Luigi.'
"His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her breast. I touched my brother—he started a moment—looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, senseless by the couch."
VI.
Think of it! The birds sing—the sun shines—the leaves rustle—the flowers bud and bloom—children shout—young hearts are happy—the world wheels on—and such tragedies are, and always have been!
I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony, and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide in your black gondola along the canal, under the balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.