The Day of Temptation. Le Queux William

sitting on chairs chattering and laughing, and it seemed as though all the notable people of Florence and Bologna had assembled there to enjoy the cool breeze after the terrific heat of the August day. Along the Viale the road was sun-bleached, the wind-swept tamarisks were whitened by the dust, and the town that day had throbbed and gasped beneath the terrible, fiery August glare. But here, at Pancaldi’s, was light, happy chatter – in Italian of various dialects, of course – a cool, refreshing breeze, and that indefinable air of delicious laziness which Italy alone claims as her birthright.

      The pair sitting together at the end of the asphalted walk, at some distance from the crowd, were young and, to a casual observer, well matched. Unlike all others round about her, the woman was of fair complexion, about twenty-five, with that gold-brown hair that Titian loved to paint, eyes of a deep and wondrous blue, a small, adorable mouth, the upper lip of which possessed that rare attribute, the true Cupid’s bow, a face sweet, almost childlike in expression, prefect in its purity. Her great beauty was well set off by her black dress and tiny black bonnet, but from the crown of her head to the toe of her pointed patent-leather shoe there was a chic and daintiness about her which, to an English eye, stamped her as foreign, even though her face bore no trace of Italian blood.

      Half that gay, gossiping crowd, attracted by her beauty, had already set her down as English, perhaps because her fairness was uncommon in Tuscany, perhaps because they detected by the cut of her companion’s clothes that he was English. But Gemma Fanetti was really a native of Florence, a true-bred Tuscan, who knew not half a dozen words of English. She could chatter French a little, and could gabble the nasal Milanese dialect, but it always amused her to be taken for an Englishwoman.

      Her dress, although black, and only relieved by a little white lace at the throat and wrists, was made in the latest mode, and fitted her perfectly. On her slim wrist was a single bangle of diamonds, which flashed in the dying sunlight with all the colours of the spectrum as, in chatting idly with her companion, she slowly traced semicircles on the ground with the point of her black sunshade. Undoubtedly she was strikingly beautiful, for men in twos and threes were passing and repassing solely for the purpose of obtaining a glance at her.

      Utterly unconscious of their admiration, of the whisperings of those about her, or of the glorious wealth of colour spread before them as the sun sank deep into the grey, glittering sea, they both chatted on, glancing now and then into each other’s eyes.

      Her companion was about twenty-eight, good-looking, dark-eyed, with a merry face and an air of carelessness as, in a suit of cool, white ducks, and his straw hat tilted slightly over his brow to shade his eyes, he sat back in his chair, joining in her low, well-bred laughter. Truth to tell, Charles Armytage was desperately in love.

      For seven years – ever since he came of age and succeeded to his father’s property in Wales – he had led a wild, rather dissipated life on the Continent, and had found himself world-weary before his time. His college career had terminated somewhat ignominiously, for he had been “sent down” on account of a rather serious practical joke; he had studied for the Bar, and failed; he had done the whole round of the public gaming establishments, Monte Carlo, Ostend, Spa, Dinant, Namur, and Trouville, losing heavily at each; he had idled on the sands of Scheveningen, flirted on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, tasted the far-famed oysters at Arcachon, the bouillabaisse at Marseilles, and bathed on San Sebastian’s golden sands. Once he had taken a fit into his head to visit all the spas, and, beginning with Royat, he made a tour of all the principal ones as far as Carlsbad. Thus had he developed into a thorough cosmopolitan, travelling hither and thither just as his fancy led him, his only hobby being in occasionally writing a short story or travel article for one or other of the English magazines.

      It was in his restless, dejected mood that, six months before, he had arrived in Florence, and by mere chance had first met the woman who was now beside him. He had one morning been walking along the Via Tornabuoni when he first saw her, accompanied by her servant. Suddenly something fell to the pavement, and an urchin instantly snatched it up. Armytage ran after him, recovered the little golden charm, and handed it to its owner, being rewarded by a few words of thanks. Her grace, her beauty, her soft, musical voice rekindled within him a desire for life. Instantly he became fascinated by her wondrous beauty, and she, too, seemed content to chat with him, and to listen to his very faulty Italian, which must have been exceedingly difficult for her to understand.

      They did not meet often, but always casually. Once or twice he encountered her cycling in the Cascine, and had joined her in a spin along the shady avenues. They had exchanged cards, but she had never invited him to call, and he, living at a hotel, could scarcely invite her. Italian manners strictly preserve the convenances. No unmarried lady in any Tuscan city, not even a woman of the people, ever dreams of going out alone. Even the poorest girl is chaperoned whenever she takes an airing.

      Suddenly, just when Armytage found himself hopelessly infatuated, he one morning received an urgent telegram calling him to London, and he had been compelled to leave without a word of farewell, or any knowledge of her address.

      As soon as he could, he returned to Florence, but the weather had then grown hot, and all who were able had left the sun-baked city. Then, disappointed at not finding her after an active search, he drifted down to the sea at Livorno, and within three days was delighted to see her strolling in the Passeggio with her ugly, cross-eyed serving woman. The recognition was mutual, and after one or two meetings she explained that she had a flat for the season in one of the great white houses opposite, and expressed a hope that he would call.

      He lost no time in renewing the acquaintance, and now they were inseparable. He loved her.

      “Do you know, Gemma,” he was saying seriously, “when I left Florence in March, I left my heart behind – with you.”

      She blushed slightly beneath her veil, and raising her clear blue eyes to his, answered with a slight sigh in her soft Italian —

      “You say you love me, caro; but can I really believe you?”

      “Of course you can, dearest,” he answered earnestly, speaking her tongue with difficulty. “I love no other woman in the whole world but you.”

      “Ah!” she exclaimed sadly, gazing blankly away across the sea, now glittering crimson in the blaze of the dying day. “I sometimes fear to love you, because you may tire of me one day, and go back to some woman of your own people.”

      “Never,” he answered fervently. “As I told you yesterday, Gemma, I love you; and you, in return, have already given me your pledge.”

      “And you can actually love me like this, blindly, without inquiring too deeply into my past?” she whispered, regarding him gravely with those calm, clear eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very soul.

      “Your past matters not to me,” he answered in a deep, intense voice under his breath, so that passers-by should not overhear. “I have asked you nothing; you have told me nothing. I love you, Gemma, and trust to your honour to tell me what I ought to know.”

      “Ah! you are generous!” she exclaimed; and he saw beneath her veil a single tear upon her cheek. “The past life of a man can always be effaced; that of a woman never. A false step, alas! lives as evidence against her until the grave.”

      “Why are you so melancholy this evening?” he asked, after a pause.

      “I really don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps it is because I am so happy and contented. My peace seems too complete to be lasting.”

      “While you love me, Gemma, I shall love you always,” he exclaimed decisively. “You need never have any doubt about my earnestness. I adore you.”

      Her breast heaved and fell beneath its black lace and jet, and she turned her fine eyes upon him with an expression more eloquent than any words of assurance and affection.

      Then, after a brief silence, he glanced around at the crowd about them, saying —

      “It is impossible to speak further of our private affairs here. You will dine with me to-night. Where shall it be?”

      “Let’s dine at the Eden. There’s plenty of air there. We can get a table facing the sea, and stay to the performance afterwards. Shall