The maid-servant rose. “I was only going to say, Padrona,” continued the man calmly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes, “that this gentleman here would not look twice at his money if you gave him a softer bed than ours. That is what I wanted to tell you, Padrona, and now may the Blessed Virgin send you a good night, Signora Fenice!”
With that he turned to his companion, and, like him, bowed low before the picture in the corner, crossed himself, and with the serving-maid both left the room. “Good night, Nina!” called the young girl. The old woman turned at the threshold, made a sign of inquiry, then closed the door behind her quickly and obediently. Scarcely were they alone, when Fenice took up the brass lamp that stood at the side of the hearth and quickly lighted it. The fire was gradually dying out in the hearth; the three tiny, red flames of the lamp lighted only one small corner of the room. The darkness seemed to have made the stranger drowsy, for he was sitting at the table, his head lying on his arms, his cloak wrapped close about him, as if he intended to pass the night that way. Then he heard his name called; he looked up. The lamp was burning on the table before him; opposite stood the young padrona who had called him. With irresistible power her look drew his toward her. “Filippo,” said she, “don’t you know me any more?” For a long time he looked searchingly into the beautiful face which was all aglow in the light of the lamp, and still more so from anxiety. The long, yielding eyelashes, as they slowly lifted and fell, softened the severity of the forehead and of the slenderly formed nose. Her mouth was a bloom of the rosiest youth; only, when it was silent it had a touch of resignation, sorrow, and wildness, which the dark eyes did not contradict.
And now, as she stood at the table, the stern beauty of her figure showed itself, especially the superb lines of her neck and throat. Nevertheless, after a minute’s thought, Filippo said:
“Truly, I do not know you, Padrona.”
“It is not possible,” she said, in a strange, deep tone of assurance. “You have had seven years to be thinking about me. It is a long time—surely long enough for the picture to have made an impression.”
This unlooked-for reply seemed all at once to break the spell of his preoccupation. “Of course, my girl,” said he, “who thinks for seven years of nothing else save the beautiful head of a young woman must come at last to know it by heart.”
“Yes,” said she with meaning, “it is quite true, you said so then, that you would think of nothing else.”
“Seven years ago? Seven years ago I was a light-hearted, joking fellow. And you believed that in good faith?”
She nodded three times, earnestly. “Why should I not believe it? Indeed, I have even learnt it through my own experience that you said right.”
“Child,” said he with a relenting look that well became his determined features, “I am sorry. Seven years ago, very likely, I still thought all women knew that the tender words of men were worth little more than the counters which we occasionally exchange for ringing gold, a matter of course that has been expressly agreed upon beforehand. What did I not think of you women seven years ago! Now, truly, I seldom think of you at all. Dear child, there are things so much more important to think about.”