Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

      At one of these his gondola presently touched. The gate was cautiously unbarred and Odo found himself in a strip of garden preceding a low pavilion in which not a light was visible. A woman-servant led him indoors and the Marquess greeted him on the threshold.

      “You are late!” he exclaimed. “I began to fear you would not be here to receive our guests with me.”

      “Your guests?” Odo repeated. “I had fancied there was but one.”

      The Marquess smiled. “My dear Mary of the Crucifix,” he said, “is too well-born to venture out alone at this late hour, and has prevailed on her bosom friend to accompany her.—Besides,” he added with his deprecating shrug, “I own I have had too recent an experience of your success to trust you alone with my enchantress; and she has promised to bring the most fascinating nun in the convent to protect her from your wiles.”

      As he spoke he led Odo into a room furnished in the luxurious style of a French boudoir. A Savonnerie carpet covered the floor, the lounges and easy-chairs were heaped with cushions, and the panels hung with pastel drawings of a lively or sentimental character. The windows toward the garden were close-shuttered, but those on the farther side of the room stood open on a starlit terrace whence the eye looked out over the lagoon to the outer line of islands.

      “Confess,” cried Cœur-Volant, pointing to a table set with delicacies and flanked by silver wine-coolers, “that I have spared no pains to do my goddess honor and that this interior must present an agreeable contrast to the whitewashed cells and dismal refectory of her convent! No passion,” he continued, with his quaint didactic air, “is so susceptible as love to the influence of its surroundings; and principles which might have held out against a horse-hair sofa and soupe à l’oignon have before now been known to succumb to silk cushions and champagne.”

      He received with perfect good-humor the retort that if he failed in his designs his cook and his upholsterer would not be to blame; and the young men were still engaged in such banter when the servant returned to say that a gondola was at the water-gate. The Marquess hastened out and presently reappeared with two masked and hooded figures. The first of these, whom he led by the hand, entered with the air of one not unaccustomed to her surroundings; but the other hung back, and on the Marquess’s inviting them to unmask, hurriedly signed to her friend to refuse.

      “Very well, fair strangers,” said Cœur-Volant with a laugh; “if you insist on prolonging our suspense we shall avenge ourselves by prolonging yours, and neither my friend nor I will unmask till you are pleased to set us the example.”

      The first lady echoed his laugh. “Shall I own,” she cried, “that I suspect in this unflattering compliance a pretext to conceal your friend’s features from me as long as possible? For my part,” she continued, throwing back her hood, “the mask of hypocrisy I am compelled to wear in the convent makes me hate every form of disguise, and with all my defects I prefer to be known as I am.” And with that she detached her mask and dropped the cloak from her shoulders.

      The gesture revealed a beauty of the laughing sensuous type best suited to such surroundings. Sister Mary of the Crucifix, in her sumptuous gown of shot-silk, with pearls wound through her reddish hair and hanging on her bare shoulders, might have stepped from some festal canvas of Bonifazio’s. She had laid aside even the light gauze veil worn by the nuns in gala habit, and no vestige of her calling showed itself in dress or bearing.

      “Do you accept my challenge, cavaliere?” she exclaimed, turning on Odo a glance confident of victory.

      The Marquess meanwhile had approached the other nun with the intention of inducing her to unmask; but as Sister Mary of the Crucifix advanced to perform the same service for his friend, his irrepressible jealousy made him step hastily between them.

      “Come, cavaliere,” he cried, Odo gaily drawing toward the unknown nun, “since you have induced one of our fair guests to unmask perhaps you may be equally successful with the other, who appears provokingly indifferent to my advances.”

      The masked nun had in fact retreated to a corner of the room and stood there, drawing her cloak about her, rather in the attitude of a frightened child than in that of a lady bent on a gallant adventure.

      Sister Mary of the Crucifix approached her playfully. “My dear Sister Veronica,” said she, throwing her arm about the other’s neck, “hesitates to reveal charms which she knows must cast mine in the shade; but I am not to be outdone in generosity, and if the Marquess will unmask his friend I will do the same by mine.”

      As she spoke she deftly pinioned the nun’s hands and snatched off her mask with a malicious laugh. The Marquess, entering into her humor, removed Odo’s at the same instant, and the latter, turning with a laugh, found himself face to face with Fulvia Vivaldi. He grew white, and Mary of the Crucifix sprang forward to support her friend.

      “Good God! What is this?” gasped the Marquess, staring from one to the other.

      A glance of entreaty from Fulvia checked the answer on Odo’s lips, and for a moment there was silence in the room; then Fulvia, breaking away from her companion, fled out on the terrace. Sister Mary was about to follow; but Odo, controlling himself, stepped between them.

      “Madam,” said he in a low voice, “I recognize in your companion a friend of whom I have long had no word. Will you pardon me if I speak with her alone?”

      Sister Mary drew back with a meaning sparkle in her handsome eyes. “Why, this,” she cried, not without a touch of resentment, “is the prettiest ending imaginable; but what a sly creature, to be sure, to make me think it was her first assignation!”

      Odo, without answering, hastened out on the terrace. It was so dark after the brightly-lit room that for a moment he did not distinguish the figure which had sprung to the low parapet above the water; and he stumbled forward just in time to snatch Fulvia back to safety.

      “This is madness!” he cried, as she hung upon him trembling.

      “The boat,” she stammered in a strange sobbing voice—“the boat should be somewhere below—”

      “The boat lies at the water-gate on the other side,” he answered.

      She drew away from him with a gesture of despair. The struggle with Sister Mary had disordered her hair and it fell on her white neck in loosened strands. “My cloak—my mask—” she faltered vaguely, clasping her hands across her bosom; then suddenly dropped to a seat and burst into tears. Once before—but in how different a case!—he had seen her thus bowed with weeping. Then fate had thrown him humbled at her feet, now it was she who cried him mercy in every line of her bent head and shaken breast; and the thought of that other meeting thrilled his heart with pity.

      He knelt before her, seeking her hands. “Fulvia, why do you shrink from me?” he whispered. But she shook her head and wept on.

      At last her sobs subsided and she rose to her feet. “I must go back,” she said in a low tone, and would have passed him.

      “Back? To the convent?”

      “To the convent,” she said after him; but she made no farther effort to move.

      The question that tortured him sprang forth. “You have taken the vows?”

      “A month since,” she answered.

      He hid his face in his hands and for a moment both were silent. “And you have no other word for me—none?” he faltered at last.

      She fixed him with a hard bright stare. “Yes—one,” she cried; “keep a place for me among your gallant recollections.”

      “Fulvia!” he said with sudden strength, and caught her by the arm.

      “Let me pass!” she cried.

      “No, by heaven!” he retorted; “not till you listen to me—till you tell me how it is I come upon you here! Ah, child,” he broke out, “do you fancy I don’t see how little you belong