After the Pardon. Matilde Serao

spirit and desolate heart became more profound and intense.

      “Maria,” said a voice at her shoulder.

      She turned suddenly. The young man who had called her took her two hands and kissed them one after the other with tender gallantry, and while she bent her head with a smile he kissed her eyes with a soft caress.

      “It is a little late,” he said, excusing himself.

      “It wants a quarter of an hour to ten,” replied Maria precisely. He looked at his watch and added—

      “Perhaps your watch is fast?”

      “Perhaps,” she replied, as if to break off the discussion.

      She sat down, and the young man, taking a low chair, his usual seat, placed himself beside her. Taking her hand loosely he began to play a little with her fingers, toying distractedly with the rings with which they were loaded.

      “… m’aimes?” said Maria, in an almost childish French fashion, but in a voice without tone or colour.

      “… t’aime,” he replied childishly, and rather perfunctorily. Having, as it were, accomplished a small preliminary duty of conversation they were silent.

      She looked at him, and noticed that he was in evening dress, and in his buttonhole were some carnations which she had given him in the morning. Marco Fiore’s slightly delicate appearance was aided by these garments of society. His person gained freedom from a certain thinness more apparent than real. His face was a little too pallid, with deep-black hair and moustaches; the lips were fresh and strong. The eyes, which were extremely soft, with a fascinating softness, had every now and then something feminine in them. But there was nothing feminine in the gleams of passion which kept crossing them in waves, nor was there anything feminine in the generality of the lines, where firmness and even obstinacy were prominent. Two or three times, to break the silence, he kissed her slender fingers.

      “Are you going out, Marco?” she asked in that decided voice of hers, which required a precise and direct reply.

      “Yes, for a moment or two. … I am obliged to,” Marco insinuated.

      “Where?”

      “To the English Embassy, Maria.”

      “Is there a reception?”

      “Yes, the last of the season,” he explained, as if to clear up his obligation for going.

      Again there was a silence. Maria sat with her two jewelled hands clasped over her knees among the silken folds of opaque silver, as if in a dream.

      “Once upon a time I was a great friend of Lady Clairville.”

      “And now?” Marco asked absent-mindedly.

      Suddenly he repented of the remark. Maria’s large eyes, proud and ardent, were veiled in tears.

      “Now no longer,” she said, still as if in a dream.

      “It is you who avoid her,” he said, trying to repair the mischief.

      “It is I, yes,” she said, awakening suddenly, in a clear voice. “I did not wish her to cut me. The English are faithful, I know. But still she is an ambassadress and sees lots of people, even bad people.”

      He shook his head melancholily, as if he thought, “What is to be done? These are fatal matters to discuss.”

      “And you, Marco, why are you going?” Maria questioned, with an increase of hardness.

      “My mother is going there, so——”

      “But she has your sister-in-law for company?”

      “Yes, Beatrice is accompanying her; but both have no escort.”

      “Is your brother Giulio away?”

      “Yes, he is at Spello.”

      They remained silent for a while.

      “I am sure,” resumed Maria, “you will meet some one at the English Embassy.”

      “Whoever, Maria?”

      “Vittoria Casalta, your former fiancée, the sister of your sister-in-law,” and an accent more ironical than disdainful pointed the sentence.

      “No, Maria,” he said, at once becoming serious.

      “What is this ‘No,’ Marco?” and she smiled more sarcastically; “what are you denying?”

      “That Vittoria Casalta is going to the English Embassy, Maria.”

      “Ah, you know that she is not going there!” and she laughed bitterly.

      “Don’t torment yourself, don’t torment me, dear soul!” he said softly, tenderly drawing her to himself with his conquering sweetness and gentle grace.

      Donna Maria let herself be drawn to him, no longer smiling, as if expecting some word or action. But neither action nor word came. After the tender admonition, as usual, a certain dryness rendered them dumb and motionless.

      She, as usual, was the first to interrupt this state of mind.

      “And then, Marco, how do you know that the fair Vittoria is not going to Lady Clairville’s?”

      “Because she no longer goes into society, Maria.”

      “Has she taken the veil?” she exclaimed, with a sarcastic smile.

      “Almost. For that matter she never has loved the world.”

      “Perhaps she flies from you, Marco?”

      “Yes, I believe she flies from me.”

      “I tell you Vittoria Casalta still loves you,” Maria murmured slowly as if she were speaking to herself, as if she were repeating to herself a thing said many times.

      “No,” said Marco vivaciously.

      “She still loves you,” the woman repeated authoritatively, almost imperiously.

      “There is only one woman who loves me, and she is you, Maria—you,” he replied, as if to finish the discussion.

      She listened attentively from the very first words of the sentence, attentively as if to find in them a trace or a recollection of past things, but she did not hear there quite what she wished. The words were the same, but the voice was no longer the same which pronounced them, and no longer the same, perhaps, was the man who said them. A sense of delusion for an instant, only for an instant, was depicted on her face; an expression, however, which he did not notice.

      “I have never understood, Marco,” she resumed in a grave voice, “if you loved this Vittoria Casalta seriously.”

      “What does it matter now?” he exclaimed, a little vexed.

      “No, it doesn’t matter, it is true. Still, I should have liked to have heard it from you.”

      “How many times have you asked this, Maria?” he said, between reproof and increasing vexation.

      “Also you have asked me pretty often, Marco, if I ever loved my husband,” she retorted disdainfully.

      At such a reminder the countenance of Marco Fiore became convulsed. Every slightly feminine trace disappeared from his rather pale and delicate face, and the firm and obstinate lines of his profile and chin became more accentuated, manly and rough. His lips trembled as he spoke.

      “Why do you name your husband? Why do you name him, Maria?”

      “Because he is not dead, Marco; because he exists, because he lives,” she proclaimed imperiously, her large eyes flashing.

      “I hate him. Don’t speak to me of him!” he exclaimed with agitation, rising and kicking the chair aside to walk about.

      “But