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diff --git a/old/61109-0.txt b/old/61109-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 054c8d6..0000000 --- a/old/61109-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11267 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Desire of Life, by Matilde Serao - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Desire of Life - -Author: Matilde Serao - -Translator: William Collinge - -Release Date: January 5, 2020 [EBook #61109] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESIRE OF LIFE *** - - - - -Produced by Andrés V. Galia, Jacqueline (jjz), Knysna and -the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - THE DESIRE OF LIFE - - [Illustration] - - THE DESIRE OF LIFE - By - MATILDE SERAO - AUTHOR OF - "AFTER THE PARDON," - "THE CONQUEST OF ROME," ETC. - Translated from the Italian - by - WILLIAM COLLINGE, M.A. - London: GREENING & CO. - New York: BRENTANO'S - - - PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN - - - - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - - Page - - CHAPTER I 5 - - CHAPTER II 21 - - CHAPTER III 35 - - CHAPTER IV 46 - - CHAPTER V 65 - - CHAPTER VI 70 - - CHAPTER VII 92 - - CHAPTER VIII 120 - - CHAPTER IX 129 - - CHAPTER X 147 - - CHAPTER XI 161 - - CHAPTER XII 172 - - CHAPTER XIII 178 - - CHAPTER XIV 186 - - CHAPTER XV 202 - - CHAPTER XVI 223 - - CHAPTER XVII 231 - - CHAPTER XVIII 252 - - CHAPTER XIX 272 - - CHAPTER XX 295 - - - - - CHAPTER I - -"How light it is still!" said Don Vittorio Lante, after a long silence. - -"Evening falls much later among the high mountains," suggested Lucio -Sabini. - -The great vault of the sky was ascending, as they were ascending, -from the level of the Val Bregaglia; it passed over their heads and -kept rising, as their eyes contemplated it quietly, amongst the steep -mountain peaks, now quite green with trees and bushes, now bare and -rugged; rising so immensely towards the horizon, as if they should -not perceive its descending curve. It was the sky of an uncertain -summer day that during the afternoon had been softly blue, veiled by -transparent clouds, but now had become a very light grey, of great -purity and clearness. - -"It is eight o'clock," exclaimed Don Vittorio Lante, pursuing his quiet -thoughts. - -"Eight o'clock," affirmed Lucio Sabini slowly. - -The bells of their horses tinkled faintly in their tranquil ascent; -the torrent on their right, at times violent and covered with the foam -whitening on its rocks, at times clear and narrow like a brook amidst -green meadows, rumbled noisily and softly as it descended from the -white and cold summits whither they were ascending, on its way to the -warm and monotonous plains whence they had come. - -"We shall not arrive before half-past eleven," said Vittorio Lante, in -a low voice. - -"Not before," affirmed Lucio Sabini, in the same tone. Both were -smoking cigarettes: fine smoke shadows, not clouds, scarcely floated -round their faces, as their carriage continued to ascend, to the calm -and regular paces of the horses, along the accustomed road, the long -road that climbs, amidst a continual renewing of small and large -valleys, of narrow gorges, and vast stretches, between the two mountain -sides on right and left. At Chiavenna they found that the diligence had -left, owing to a change in the time-table from the previous year, and -for five hours a hired carriage had been conveying them towards the -austere Grissons, whose outposts were not yet distinguishable. - -"What does it matter?" said Vittorio Lante, still continuing his -thought aloud. "It is better to arrive late at St. Moritz than lose a -night at Chiavenna." - -"Or at Vicosoprano," concluded Lucio Sabini, throwing away the end of -his cigarette. - -Both gentlemen settled themselves better in their places, and drew -the large English travelling-rug over their limbs, with the quiet -gestures of those who are used to long journeys. Just an hour ago they -had halted at Vicosoprano to rest their horses, since they could not -obtain a change: they arrived at six and left at seven. After giving -a glance at the new, white, and melancholy Hôtel Helvetia, where, in -a small meadow in front of the hotel, and around its peristyle, male -and female figures moved about aimlessly, dressed indifferently, with -the insignificant and bored faces of those who are used to sojourning -at solitary pensions on seven francs a day, and while the annoying -bell of the round table of the "Helvetia" was dinning in their ears, -they descended at the old rustic inn, "The Crown." Round the arch of -the low and broad Swiss doorway ran a motto in Gothic characters, -and the small central balcony had four or five little bright geranium -plants and purple gentians: a resounding and black wooden staircase led -to the first floor. The innkeeper's blond and florid daughter, with -heightened colour, had served them rapidly and silently with a simple -and characteristic dinner: to wit, a thick and steaming vegetable soup, -trout in butter, roast fowl, and lastly, English sponge cake, with -acid and fresh gooseberry jam. At the door, as they were getting into -their carriage to set out again, a very blond Swiss maiden offered them -little bunches of cyclamen, which they still wore, although they were -already slightly faded. - -"Are you going to stop long up there, Vittorio?" asked Lucio Sabini, in -a discreet tone. - -"Three or four weeks, no longer; and you, Lucio?" - -"I don't know; the same I think; I don't know exactly." And a slight -smile, mingled with doubt, annoyance, and bitterness, appeared and -disappeared about his lips. Even the face of his travelling companion -became thoughtful. - -Don Vittorio Lante was fair with thick and shining chestnut hair, -chestnut eyes, now soft and now proud, but always expressive, and fair, -curled moustaches. His features were fine and he seemed much younger -than his thirty years; the complexion was delicate but vivacious. On -the other hand, Lucio Sabini at thirty-five was distinctly dark, with -black eyes, calm and thoughtful, pale complexion, very black hair and -moustaches, while he was tall and thin of figure. Vittorio Lante was of -medium height, but well made and agile. Both were wrapped in thought, -and they no longer smoked. Some time passed; suddenly something far on -high gleamed whitely amidst the increasing shadows. - -"It is the glacier," said Lucio Sabini; "the Forno Glacier." And as -if that whiteness, already expanding in the night at the edge of the -Val Bregaglia, had sent them an icy blast, they wrapped the rug closer -round them, and hid their gloved hands under its covering. - -"Do you expect to amuse yourself in the Engadine, Lucio?" asked -Vittorio. - -"Of course, I am sure to amuse myself very much, as I do every year." - -"Leading a fashionable life?" - -"No, making love." - -"Have you come to the Engadine to love and to be loved, Lucio?" - -"Oh, no," exclaimed the other, with a gentle movement of impatience and -an ironical little smile. "I never said that: I said that I go to St. -Moritz, as I do every year, to make love." - -"That is to say--to flirt." - -"Exactly: you say the English word, I the Italian." - -Suddenly the whiteness that crowned Monte Forno seemed as if it had -been extended to the sky, rendering it more vast; it was a great white -cloud, soft and clear, since it preceded the moon. All the country -changed its aspect. Before them stood out the great, green wall of -trees, with almost the appearance of a peak, which separates the -Engadine from the Val Bregaglia. Beneath the appearing and disappearing -lunar brightness, behind the white cloud, a sinuous spiral disclosed -itself amidst the wood like a soft ribbon that came and went, but ever -climbed--the road which leads to the hill of the Maloja. Meanwhile, -the carriage, reducing its pace, entered the first bend of the winding -way; the clouds continued to increase, and there was a continuous -alternating of light and shade, according as they conquered the moon or -were conquered by her. - -"You like flirting, Lucio?" - -"Very much," replied the other, with an intense smile; "and this is an -ideal country for love-making, Vittorio." - -"I know it is. And do you sometimes grow fond of each other?" - -"Sometimes I grow fond of them." - -"And, perhaps, sometimes you fall in love?" - -"One is always a little in love with the person to whom one makes -love," said Lucio Sabini, in a low voice. - -"But do you fall in love?" insisted Vittorio. - -"Yes, I fall in love, too," Lucio confessed. - -"And then? What do you do to cure yourself?" asked Vittorio Lante, with -affectionate curiosity; "because you do cure yourself, don't you?" - -"I keep on curing myself," replied the other sadly, regarding the -clouds that were heaping above, as they became less white, obscuring -and hiding all the light of the moon. "I cure myself of myself. And if -I do not there is somebody who sees to curing me." - -Suddenly it seemed as if a boundless sadness was emanating from what -Lucio Sabini was saying and thinking, from what he was not saying and -thinking. His head was slightly bowed, and his lowered lashes hid his -glance. - -"Then you are allowed to come to St. Moritz?" Vittorio asked in a low -voice, as if he were afraid of being indiscreet. - -"I am allowed to come," Lucio replied rather bitterly. "We can't travel -together in summer; some family _convenances_ must be obeyed, certain -canons have to be observed--there are so many things, Vittorio! Well, -I have two months of liberty, two beautiful months you understand, two -long months; sixty times twenty-four hours in which I am free, in which -I delude myself and believe I am free--I am free!" - -At first his words came sadly, then with increasing violence, while the -last words sounded like a cry of revolt from a heart oppressed by its -slavery. - -"Still, she loves you," said Vittorio sweetly, in a subdued tone. - -"Yes, she loves me," admitted Lucio quietly. - -"For some time, I think." - -"For an eternity, for ten years." - -Lucio Sabini in the gloaming looked fixedly at his companion; then -without bitterness, without joy, he added in an expressionless voice: - -"I love her." - -Very slowly, to the soft and gentle tinkling of the horses' bells, -the carriage traversed the tortuous road, through the wood and past -some majestic walls, and, like a vision, the small castle of Renesse -appeared on high, now to the right and now to the left. The air -continued to grow colder. The coachman on the box seemed to be asleep -or dreaming, as he drove his horses, with bent shoulders and bowed -head; even the two horses seemed to be asleep or dreaming of the ascent -to the Maloja, as they tinkled their bells. And in a dream firmament -the clouds galloped bizarrely, as they were scattered by the wind, -which up above must be blowing strongly. - -"There is nothing more delightful or pleasing than to make love to -these foreigners," resumed Lucio, in a light tone, but with a slight -shade of emotion; "there are some adorable little women, and girls -especially. Some of them are very fashionable and complex, others are -simple and frank; but some are very inquisitive and quite distrustful -of all Italians." - -"How's that?" asked Vittorio Lante, not without anxiety. - -"We Italians have a very bad reputation," Lucio replied calmly, as -he lit a cigarette. "They obstinately believe us to be liars and -inconstant in love affairs. _Actors_ is the defensive word of these -foreign women. But all the same they allow themselves to be attracted -equally by our charm--because the men of their races do not trouble -themselves to be charming--and by our ardour, assumed or real--because -they never see their men ardent--and also by a certain invincible -poetry that surrounds our country and ourselves." - -"So an Italian can please and conquer mightily up there?" - -"Very much so," replied Lucio serenely. - -"And conquer seriously?" again added Vittorio. - -"Seriously, no," answered Lucio. "We must not deceive ourselves; our -attractions are for the most part of brief duration. When August is -over at St. Moritz, to pass the first long week of September together -at Lucerne, afterwards a few days in Paris--that suffices!" - -"They forget?" - -"They forget; our fascination comes from our presence. At a distance -the lover dwindles: their English and Austrians, their Americans and -Russians take them back--and all is over. A post card or two with a -poetical motto; then nothing more." - -"But if they don't forget?" - -"That is seldom," murmured Lucio thoughtfully; "but it does happen. A -Viennese, fair, slim, and most sympathetic ... two years ago ... she -still remembers me." - -"She hoped? She hopes?" - -"She hoped; she hopes," replied Lucio thoughtfully. - -"She didn't know...?" - -"She knew nothing: the dear creatures never know anything: I try to -make them know nothing." - -"They think you free?" - -"Most free." - -"You deceive them?" - -"I do not deceive them; I am silent"--and he smiled slowly. - -"And what if one of them, more passionate, were to fall in love with -you, and you seriously with her, Lucio?" - -"That would be very serious indeed," murmured Lucio sadly. - -"In fact, you are bound for ever, Lucio?" asked Vittorio, with -melancholy. - -"Yes; for ever," he affirmed, with that inexpressive voice of his, as -if declaring an irrefutable fact. - -A great gust of icy wind caught them, causing them to shudder and -tremble with the cold. The great wall was passed, still a few minutes -more and they would find themselves at the hill of the Maloja. The sky -was quite white with little white clouds on one side, because the moon -was passing behind them, while about the Margna--the great mountain -with twin peaks nearly always covered with snow--the clouds had become -black and threatening with rain and storm. - -"Vittorio, Vittorio," exclaimed Lucio Sabini, in an altered voice; -"adultery is a land of madness, of slavery and death. Don't give -your youth and life to it as I have given mine, even to my last day. -Beatrice and I have been intoxicated with happiness, but we are two -unfortunates. I was twenty-five then, Vittorio, and she was three -years older; but we never thought that we should throw away our every -good, that is the one, the great, the only good--liberty! We are lost, -Beatrice and I, in every way, both in our social life and in our -consciences, not through remorse for our sin--no, for that was dear to -us--but because of the ashes and poison it contains." - -"Haven't you tried to free yourselves?" asked Vittorio timidly. - -"I tried, but I was unsuccessful. Beatrice is older than I am," said -Lucio gloomily, "and the idea of being left horrifies her." - -"But she loves you, doesn't she? How can she see you unhappy?" - -"Because she loved me, even she tried, the poor dear, to free me," -Lucio Sabini resumed, with a voice almost oppressed with tears; "last -year she wanted me to marry Bertha Meyer, the beautiful Viennese--an -exquisite creature--but then she never succeeded. Poor, dear Beatrice! -She suffered a thousand deaths. We suffered together. I love her -tenderly, you understand; and, above all, I cannot see her suffer." - -A sad and heavy silence fell upon the twain. Their teeth almost -chattered from the severe cold which had surprised them, at that -advanced hour of the evening on the high plain of the Maloja. - -"Still," continued Lucio Sabini, "every now and then I feel my body, -senses, and spirit weakened in this terrible slavery. Then, during -these horrible crises, here and there I meet with other women, another -woman--Bertha Meyer, who was so exquisite, or someone else--young, -beautiful, free, with heart intact and fresh soul. In her come from -afar, from countries which I know not, from a race that is foreign to -me, I feel mysteriously the secret of my peace and repose, of the life -that remains for me to live. Ah! what deep, what pungent nostalgia -wounds me, Vittorio, through this fresh soul which has come to me from -afar with all the gifts of existence in her white hands. I must let the -white hands open, which I sadly repel, and allow the precious treasures -they contain to fall--and all is lost." - -"You make the renunciation?" asked Vittorio sadly. - -"I make the renunciation," replied Lucio simply. - -The immense and gloomy amphitheatre of the Maloja disclosed itself, -stretched and prolonged itself in almost incalculable distances before -their eyes, through the singular light that came from the immense sky, -traversed by thick clouds, now white, now grey, now black, through -the whiteness that came from the snows gathered amidst the twin peaks -of the colossal Margna, and through the snows of Monte Lunghino. -The mountains hemmed in the amphitheatre in an embrace bristling -with peaks, bare, sharp, and black, without the shade of trees or -vegetation; and on the rocks were tracks, yellowish and whitish tracks, -not of paths but of rocky veins. All was rock from foot to summit; -rocks with angry, desperate, tragic profiles. Here and there on the -level, browner shadows in the obscurity of the night, appeared three or -four uninhabited _châlets_, without sound and without light; but below, -where the amphitheatre seemed to continue interminably, flickering -lights in a row indicated a house, or rather a large edifice, where -living beings were. - -The deep and most extraordinary silence of the high land was -uninterrupted by human sound or voice, only the violent gusts of wind -produced a giant sigh and a dull rumbling. Suddenly the moon freed -herself from the clouds and a spreading brightness was diffused on all -the scene, rendering it less tragic, but not less sad. Even the wind -and bare mountains, wrapped in cold and silvery light, preserved their -disdainful and hopeless aspect, the aspect of rocks that have seen the -ages without ever a blade of grass or a flower. Yet whiter seemed the -snows of the Margna and the Lunghino; and below, behind the glimmering -light of the moon, scintillated like a great metal shield the lake of -Sils. Now and then the night wind screeched in fury. - -"Shall we close the carriage?" Vittorio Lante asked. "Are you cold?" - -"I am cold; but unless you insist on it, I prefer not to close it. In a -closed carriage time becomes eternal." - -"Eternal; that's true! This is a long night." - -"And the country is so desolate!" said Lucio Sabini. "But it doesn't -matter; you will have delightful evenings where you are going." - -"And you will as well," murmured Vittorio Lante, with a smile. - -"Are you going to flirt too?" - -"If there is nothing better to do," replied the other ambiguously. - -"Better to do?" - -"Yes." - -Now they had passed the Maloja Kursaal, that hotel of four hundred -rooms, so isolated amidst the black and bare mountains, on a desert -spot before a deserted and motionless lake. Some of the windows of the -caravanserai were illuminated, but no sound reached from them. They -skirted the lake, where all the high shadows and the brightness of the -sky were curiously reflected, as their tints changed from moment to -moment. - -"Do you want to get married, then?" asked Lucio Sabini, scrutinising -his friend's face, but with a kindly glance. - -"I don't want to; I must," replied Vittorio Lante, halting nervously at -the second verb. - -"You must?" - -"Ay," affirmed the other, shaking his shoulders and head, with the -double gesture of one who is resigned to his destiny. - -"And why rid yourself of that most precious benefit--liberty?" murmured -Lucio Sabini, seriously but benevolently. - -"Because, dear Lucio," he replied, with a motion of familiarity and -confidence, "I can do nothing with my liberty. What use would it be to -me?" - -The other listened very intently, chewing his cigarette. - -"Ah, what a weight--a great past, a great name!" exclaimed Vittorio, -as if he were speaking to himself, looking at the quiet, brown waters -of the lake of Sils. "I am a Lante, but of the branch of La Scala; for -three generations now the Lante della Scala have been ever declining as -to fortune, power, and relationship, while the cousins, the Lante della -Rovere, have not only kept, but have increased their fortunes, always -allying themselves for the better with the most powerful, noblest, and -richest families of Europe. My father was already poor when he had -me, and I am thirty and very poor. I am not ashamed to tell you about -it, who have known me for such a time and wish me well, and certainly -sympathise with me." - -A frank and almost ingenuous sorrow emanated from every word of -the young man, and nothing base escaped from such a distressing -acknowledgment as his own poverty. - -"You would like to make a grand marriage?" asked Lucio Sabini, quite -without irony. - -"My mother, who loves and adores me and suffers from our decadence, -wishes it. She desires, dreams of, and invokes millions and millions -for her Vittorio, for the house of Lante della Scala, to restore the -great palace at Terni, so as not to sell the park where they want to -found a factory." - -"St. Moritz is not lacking in youths who are on the look-out for a -large dowry," said Lucio, thoughtfully and doubtfully. - -"I know that," exclaimed Vittorio mournfully. "I know quite well that -St. Moritz is a meeting-place of big and little dowry-hunters, from him -who seeks two hundred thousand francs to him who seeks ten million. -And I know that people recognise them and that very often they are -adventurers. Nothing makes me shudder more, Lucio, than to be mistaken -for them. I am not an adventurer. I am an unfortunate gentleman, whose -lot it is to bear a great name without the means to sustain it and -who has not been taught how to work. I am a loving son, upon whom an -adorable mother has imposed the duty of setting forth to try a conjugal -adventure up there or somewhere, in homage to the lustre and claims of -the Lante della Scala." - -"If you dislike it so much, why attempt it? Why don't you convince your -mother how much there is that is deplorable, and perhaps humiliating, -in these adventures?" - -"Because I would have to convince myself first," confessed Vittorio -Lante sadly. "I, too, suffer from poverty; I, too, endure our slow -agony; I, too, envy and almost hate my proud cousins--_the others_; -I, too, keenly desire luxury and power. How is it to be helped? We -have inherited souls, we have inherited nerves and feelings! Every -now and then, through a feeling of personal dignity, I rebel against -this dowry-hunting which I have been doing for two or three years; but -directly afterwards obscurity and want inspire me with genuine horror. -What a greedy man I must seem to you, Lucio! Still, I am a chivalrous -man: I am a gentleman." - -"I know others like you honourable and gentle and good, like you -constrained by their destiny," observed Lucio Sabini, with tender -sympathy. - -Silently grateful, Vittorio Lante pressed his hand. As they proceeded -the scene changed, and the views became more attractive. The big clouds -had grown denser above their shoulders, towards the hill of the Maloja, -which they had left some time, and the Val Bregaglia. - -Denser they grew and gloomier, laden with the whirlwind of approaching -night. The moon on high hung over the gentle bends of the lake of Sils. - -Along the lake, full of deep nocturnal greens, which a band of -light cut in the middle, ran banks quite green with large and small -pines, and even on the travellers' left, along the high mountain -wall they were skirting, little meadows appeared and disappeared. -Amidst the rocks, trees and shrubs reared themselves, and often the -carriage-wheels beat down flowers from fragrant hedges. - -"Ah, if I had another name and another soul," said Vittorio Lante, -after a brief silence. - -"What would you do?" - -"I would be content with what I have. My mother and I between us have -fifteen hundred lire a month: this will be left us after we have sold -everything and paid our creditors. Fifteen hundred lire! With another -name and another soul one could, to all appearance, live comfortably on -this sum; and I could marry Livia Lante della Scala." - -"A relation?" - -"A cousin--so graceful, so sweet, and such a dear." - -"Poor?" - -"Even poorer than I am: not a penny--a great name, a great past, and -not a pennyworth of dowry!" - -"Does she love you?" - -"She loves me quietly, in silence, without any hope. Ah, what a dear -creature!" - -He sighed deeply as he gazed below at the white, modest houses of Sils -Maria amidst tall trees. - -"Do you love her, Vittorio?" - -"I am very fond of Livia, nothing more." - -"Would you be happy with her?" - -"Yes, if I were another man." - -For a long stretch of road they said nothing more. By one of those very -rapid changes, that in the high mountains astonish by their violence or -their intense sweetness, the night sky had become as clear as crystal: -the air had become so limpid that great distances could be clearly -distinguished by the moon's rays. A rustling, cold, refreshing breeze -came from afar, ruffling the waters of the lake; but behind them, very -far-away, there was a mass of black clouds which they did not turn -round to look at. On that summer night the noble, solitary mountains -pencilled themselves in great precise lines, whose virgin snows threw a -whiteness upon the lakes and the large woods and spinneys which skirted -their waters, forming beneath the light of the moon many peninsulas -and little promontories, and upon the immense meadows, where amidst -the soft green grass coursed brooks and little torrents with gentle -singing; also upon the villages seized by slumber, with little barred -windows upon whose sills tiny rose plants, geraniums, and gentians -slept in floral slumber. - -On high, amidst the dark green of the last spinney, the bright turrets -of the Villa Storey pointed to the accomplishment of their journey. -The two gentlemen, who had almost reached the end of their long drive, -tired and bruised of limb, exalted by their deep, mutual striving, and -by having confessed, almost unconsciously, how great was the pitiable -and fatal essence of their lot, and exalted by a singular increase -of their life, by the solemnity of the solitary night, the immense, -austere, yet persuasive silence that surrounded them, by that pacifying -light, and by the presence of a beauty--the simplicity and purity of -which they perceived, almost without thinking about it--desired, yes, -desired a new heart, a new soul, and another destiny. They desired that -nothing of what had happened to them should happen again, that all the -past should vanish, that everything should change--persons, sentiments, -deeds. For an instant strongly did they desire this--for an instant! - -The rocky banks of the Inn were in front of them, and their carriage -bumped up and down on the small wooden bridge that spans the noisy -little river at the entrance of St. Moritz Bad. Around them were -little white houses; on the banks amidst the trees the church spires -dominating the heights, and the imposing hotels upon which fluttered -to the cold mountain breeze the red flag with white cross. Up above on -a small hill was the village of St. Moritz Dorf, all white beneath the -moon. - -Every pure, fine, pious desire vanished in a trice. They remembered -them no more and became the men of old, of always. Their nerves and -senses were anxiously stretched out to pleasure, to luxury, to caprice; -and they were bitten by a pungent curiosity for new joys, new loves, -new fantasies--to last an hour, a day, a month, then afterwards -suddenly to be forgotten. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Smiling softly and showing her little flashing teeth, in a mouth as -red as a carnation and whimsically opened, Mabel Clarke was counting -with the point of her umbrella the boxes on the truck--large boxes of -yellow or maroon leather, either long and soft or high and massive, -with shining brass clasps and locks, and long stripes painted a vivid -white and red, upon which was described a large red "C." Standing -beneath the roof of the pretty little station of Coire, amongst the -crowd that surged, as it waited from minute to minute the departure -of the Engadine Express, Mabel Clarke, tall, slender, upright, in her -pearl-grey, tailor-made dress, which outlined all her youthful grace, -not wanting in a certain expression of robustness and strength, watched -the porters who were placing their boxes in the train. She counted up -to eighteen, of all forms and dimensions, with the great clamorous "C" -in blood red. - -"Eighteen," she exclaimed, turning round. "Eighteen, isn't that so, -dear Broughton?" - -An elderly woman, with hair more white than grey, quietly dressed in -black, nodded her head, with a gesture not lacking in respect. - -"Are you sure that is all?" resumed Mabel Clarke, with a slight frown -of her dark chestnut eyebrows on the white forehead. "Eighteen seems -very few for mamma and me." - -"Mrs. Clarke expects four boxes from Paris. Everything was not ready -from the tailor's to leave with us." - -"Ah, very well, then!" murmured Mabel Clarke, nodding her head. Turning -her back, she approached her mother, who, patiently seated beneath the -station roof near a little buffet table, had been served with a cup of -coffee, which she was not drinking. - -Mabel had continually to pass different groups of people who were -massing together for departure. Pushed about and jostled, she reached -her mother at last, and asked, with a little smile: - -"All right, mamma?" - -"All right, rather bored," replied Mrs. Clarke, shaking her head, -as she regarded the crowd with a lofty and silent expression of -fastidiousness. - -Men, women, and children were coming and going; strolling, stopping, -and running. There were old ladies dressed in black, with awkward -round hats from which hung a dark blue or brown veil, and who were -pressing round their necks large fur tippets against the cold which had -surprised them on leaving the train. There were young women dressed -brightly, with large, light travelling-cloaks left open, beneath which -appeared short skirts and elegantly booted feet, and hats enveloped -in white veils. There were children of various ages, watched over -carefully by nurses and governesses, and there was even a nurse with a -dress of white and grey stripes, a large white and grey cloak, and an -encircling cap of white ribbons above her mass of hair: she carried the -baby in her arms, wrapped in a little white fur jacket, all rosy in its -infantile sleep. - -Men of every race and age mingled with the women they were -accompanying: they separated from them, returned and disputed. -There were fine old men--tall and thin, of energetic and handsome -countenance--beardless old men, with invincible, lordly stamp in face -and person, and other old men, stout, with heightened complexion and -heavy moustaches, with a gay and thoughtless air; then middle-aged -men, some of a consumptive appearance, but bearing traces of former -virile beauty, others showing signs of pleasures enjoyed too violently. -There were robust young men, well made, whose faces, though regular -and perfect in feature, lacked expression; while other youths, whose -appearance was fashionable, but slender and delicate, had colourless -complexions, and in all their aspect an absence of health. On all this -curious and attractive variety--a great mass of men of every age--there -was a decided ugliness, a common awkwardness, though varied in form, -and a proud, harsh expression. According to their ages and conditions -this rudeness, imperiousness, and clownishness assumed different -aspects, but it was manifest in the high and insolent voices that -spoke German, in the gestures, now grotesque and now solemn, but ever -imperious--the German crowd dominating nearly all the other nations. - -Beyond the peculiar character of their clothes there were to be -recognised those whom the trains from Calais, Brussels, Vienna, and -Berlin had brought together at Paris or Basle to make up the great -cosmopolitan Engadine train: the Englishman with white shoes, check -overcoat, turned-up trousers, cloth cap; the Frenchman with light -cloak, which he was wrapping round himself, as he already felt chilly -and caught by the keen mountain air. Finally, and above all, there -was the great mass of Germans, clothed in suits which were too baggy, -or too long, or too short, of strange cut and gloomy colours, and in -stranger cloaks. But especially there was the Tyrolese costume, with -its short breeches, jacket of big pleats, and belt of the same cloth; -on the head a green cap always too small, with a narrow crease, a -myrtle-green cap, like the suit, with a Tyrolese feather behind that -resembled an interrogation mark. These suits were worn on fat bodies -and thin, or broad and bony, and the cap on a square head, with ruddy -cheeks, blond moustaches, and peeling neck in reddish-purple folds. -Lower down, standing apart, one of them, one only, had an imposing -stature and a robust head, a face with a black beard, rough and -bristly, with two eyes of sweetest blue; he the only one among so many, -apart, solitary, and silent. - -While the long and complicated work of loading the baggage of the crowd -was being accomplished, Mabel Clarke, keeping close to her mother, -watched with her large grey eyes, full of an ardent curiosity of life, -those who were moving around her. Not far from her two ladies were -seated round another _café_ table. One of them was of uncertain age, -dressed in black, with a black hat and a decided grey veil; the other -was a very young figure, bending as she wrote the addresses on several -post cards. Nothing was revealed save the lines of a white and delicate -face and the curve of a pretty mouth, closed and smileless. Beneath the -light blue veil her hair was very blond and pleasant to the eye, while -the hand that ran over the cards as she wrote was very white. - -"English," said Mabel, almost to herself, with a rather pretty little -laugh of disparagement. - -"Yes," replied her mother, with a rather more pronounced laugh. The -writer raised her head, and revealed a quite pale face beneath whose -very transparent complexion coursed a pink flush. The _tout ensemble_ -was white and virginal, an appearance which was still more increased by -the white travelling-dress. The smile round Mabel Clarke's beautiful -but jesting mouth increased. - -"_Poitrinaire, peut-être_," murmured her mother in French, with a -strong American accent. - -The daughter's eyes were averted, attracted by another feminine figure: -a young woman who beside her was sprinkling drops of water on a bunch -of roses that she was pressing to herself, which appeared faded owing -to the length of the journey. - -She was slender and tall, with a little erect and proud head, and a -refined face with charming features, without true beauty, but charming -in their harmony, with a staidness of postures and gestures and a -ladylike and disdainful aloofness from whatever was happening around -her. Two or three times Mabel regarded her and made some lively -movement to attract her attention. The other did not turn round and -observed nothing in her gracious and proud aloofness. - -"French: exquisite," sighed Mabel Clarke. - -"Exquisite," sighed her mother, even more deeply. - -Meanwhile the guttural German cries announced the departure for the -Engadine, and the crowd thronged at the doors, carrying characteristic -hand luggage; tennis-rackets in their coverings, travelling-cloaks, -sticks with chamois-horn handles and iron-spiked tips, and leather -cases with golf-clubs. - -As they clambered up, from short skirts the ladies disclosed dainty -feet, shod some of them as if they were to walk through the boulevards -of Paris, and others as if they must immediately climb the Bernina. -Mabel Clarke and her mother, followed step by step, like a shadow, by -Mrs. Broughton, approached without undue hurry the large compartment -which they had reserved. A railway official advanced, as if searching -amidst the crowd, with a yellow envelope in his hands. - -At once Mrs. Clarke summoned him. - -"A telegram for Clarke?" - -"_Ja_," said the man, offering the envelope. - -Mrs. Clarke read her telegram quietly. - -Mabel in a whisper asked: - -"Papa! all right?" - -"All right." - -Loudly the German voices of the railway officials resounded. - -"Thusis, Preda, Bergun, Tiefenkastel, St. Moritz--St. Moritz--St. -Moritz." - -As the train left overflowing with travellers, from the lowered windows -there was an appearing and disappearing of heads, veiled in white and -grey, in blue and brown; there was a fluctuating of faces, fresh or -consumptive, while some large German face all aflame, with great yellow -moustaches and green Tyrolese cap that pressed the square forehead, -would lean out to exchange loud and harsh German words with a friend, -who might have been his brother, so much did he resemble him, as he -raised his head from the station platform. - -"St. Moritz! St. Moritz! St. Moritz!" - -This was the last feeble echo which reached the travellers who were -already on their way. For some minutes there was a sound of windows -being raised rapidly against the fresh, almost cold, evening air; and -no face leant out throughout the long train to gaze at the country -where the Tamina places its whirlpool gorges beneath high rocks, while -the flowering gardens of La Rezia smile around pretty white villas, -which are more Italian than Swiss. For some time no one passed in the -narrow corridor that flanked the first-class compartments; everyone -remained quietly in his place. - -In their reserved compartment--six places for three people--Mrs. -Clarke and Miss Mabel Clarke of the great house of Clarke of New -York, of which John Clarke, husband and father, was the soul, with -his great talent and magnificent business activity--the house of -Clarke rated at six hundred actual millions, John Clarke himself at -three hundred millions, and Miss Mabel credited with a dowry of fifty -millions--mother and daughter, silent and quiet, were receiving the -most minute attentions from Mrs. Broughton, so that the remainder of -the journey of three hours and a half might be comfortable for the -two ladies. Mrs. Clarke especially accepted these attentions with -the aspect of a cold and silent idol. Mrs. Broughton opened some -large travelling rugs of fur and the little white and grey feathers -of the eider, and wrapped them round the two ladies. She drew forth -five or six cushions of stamped leather and Liberty silk, and placed -them behind Mrs. Clarke's shoulders and at her side; she made long -play with a silver and cut-glass scent bottle, sending into the air, -on the windows and seats of the compartment, a little shower of eau -de Cologne, together with another, rather stronger, perfume, perhaps -a disinfectant; and she hung on the linings of the compartment two -or three portable electric lamps to illuminate them when night came, -and to enable them to read better. In an open, red leather case, a -_nécessaire_, full of everything for making tea in the train, shone -with its warm tones of silver-gilt. Afterwards she gave a questioning -and respectful glance to her chief mistress, Mrs. Clarke, who either -did not notice her, or did not deign to do so, and another glance at -Mabel Clarke, who replied with the shortest little nod in the negative. -Mrs. Broughton settled herself in a far corner of the compartment, drew -forth from a bag a long note-book, and with a small pencil began to -write some notes and figures therein. Suddenly Mrs. Clarke awoke from -her proud torpor, and said: - -"Broughton, the big and small boxes?" - -The woman understood at once, and rising, pointed to two long boxes, -or rather coffers, on the rack, of yellow leather with steel locks and -clasps, and added: - -"I checked them before starting." - -Suddenly Mabel asked: - -"Mamma, did you bring your large pearl necklace?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"And the large diadem?" - -"Of course." - -"And, mamma, did you bring the tiara?" - -"The tiara, of course! It was necessary." - -Mabel approved, with a charming smile. Then she resumed: - -"Mamma, they say the Italians at St. Moritz have extraordinary jewels." - -"Do you believe it, Mabel?" - -"They say so. Also some South American ladies have great pearls and -diamonds, mamma." - -"Do you believe all of them can be more beautiful than my jewels? -Mabel, do you think so?" - -And a keen expression of uneasiness, the first that had animated that -marble countenance, seized her. - -"To me it seems impossible," added Mabel thoughtfully. - -"Also to me it seems impossible." - -In the next compartment were two ladies alone, who had also taken six -places for themselves. One was a woman of thirty, with a very white -face slightly coloured as to the cheeks, with two marvellous large eyes -of deep grey, somewhat velvety, while the whites of the pupils had a -blue reflection. Her mouth was vivid and sinuous, more expressive than -beautiful. Her hair was of a very bright and fine chestnut, massed -round the neck and waving over the temples. Only the temples showed a -streak of blue veins, and the little ears were exceedingly white. One -of the hands, bared of its kid glove, showed long, graceful, but bony -fingers. She who accompanied her was the image of her, though with -thirty more years; but she was very fat, with an expression of perfect -good-nature on the broad face and an unexplainable sense of fear in the -eyes that had remained childish. - -The younger woman was dressed in white cloth; but she wore a long -jacket of otter with chinchilla facings of a soft grey, which suited -her rather morbid beauty, and she remained huddled in her furs, as -if cold, with her head snuggled in the collar. Sometimes she coughed -a little. Then her mother started, became disturbed, and questioned -her a little anxiously in German. The daughter scarcely replied, in a -whisper, and settled herself better in her corner, as she dreamed with -closed eyes. A scent of sandal emanated from her, and all the minute, -very elegant luggage bore her initials, an "E." and an "L."--Else -Landau--with a baronial coronet. - -All was silent, too, in a compartment further on, full of ladies. The -exquisite French lady, of the faded roses, preserved her aspect of one -who neither sees nor hears, since she neither wishes to see nor hear. -Her hands, gloved in new white gloves, held an open book, whose title -was not to be discovered, since it was hidden in an antique silk book -cover. She turned over the pages very seldom, perhaps keeping the book -open so as not to occupy herself with her neighbours. There was a dark -lady, with fine arched eyebrows, black, passionate eyes, a carnal and -florid mouth, and all this beauty augmented and made artificial by the -rouge on the cheeks, the black beneath the eyes, and the carmine on -the lips. She was still a very young woman, but she was got up like an -old one. Every now and then the dark woman, so strangely embellished, -exchanged a word with her husband, who came to see her from another -compartment, where he had found a seat. The husband was tall and gross, -with a rather truculent countenance and big rings on his fingers. They -spoke Spanish. The third lady, the English girl, she who was writing -post cards in the station at Coire, kept silence behind the window that -gave on to the corridor. Now all the virginal purity of her very white -face was apparent beneath the slightly blue shadow of her veil. Beneath -the mother-of-pearl complexion a rosiness spread itself almost at every -beating of the arteries. The closed lips, together with the eyes of -periwinkle-blue, which gazed in sweetness and candour, all spoke of the -fragile and fascinating beauty of Anglo-Saxon women, whose grace is -invincible. Her companion was beside her; but she must have been used -to the patient silences of long journeys. - -As the train climbed in bizarre curves and loops the great pass of -Albula, crossing daring bridges and more daring viaducts, ever climbing -from Thusis, from Solis, from Tiefenkastel, not one of those travellers -gave a thought to the singular and powerful ascent of the train, as it -elevated itself ever more and more towards its lofty point of arrival. -Here there was a lively chattering in German, in French, in English, -especially in German; there someone was slumbering in his seat; here -two men and two women were playing bridge. Others were trying to read -big papers like the "Koelnische Zeitung," "The Times," and the "Temps." -Some governesses and nurses were watching two or three compartments -full of children. A French preceptor, a priest, was talking in a low -voice to a youth who was accompanying him; the nurse was walking with -her baby in the corridor with slow and heavy step. Now and then some -young man came and went hurriedly in the corridor, giving a glance at -all the compartments where the ladies were, stopping behind the windows -where some feminine profile was to be seen, with particular curiosity -at the last compartment, where Mrs. Clarke, very bored with the slow -journey, as she said, had lowered the blinds. - -No one knew anything, or wished to, of that summer night and its cold -gusts passing over the heights of the Lenzerhorn and mounting to -Preda, to Filisur, to Bergun, penetrating the heart of the mountains, -and issuing from them to cross the deep valleys, leaving to right and -left peaks covered with snow, to which no one gave a glance through -the windows as they rumbled across fantastic bridges that joined two -precipices. No one knew or wished to know how rich with Alpine perfumes -was the summer night, nor how the voices of forest, meadow, and waters -around the train were forming the great mountain chorus without words. -No one knew or wished to know what a tremendous and mortal thing it had -been for mind and hands and life of man to construct that iron road of -the high mountains, and how many existences had been scattered there. -Each trembled with impatience, anticipating the halting of the train at -little stations all of wood behind which some houses gleamed white or a -church tower rose. - -The women were slumbering or thinking or dreaming behind their veils. -Each repressed her impatience to arrive up there, whither she was -carrying either a great, keen longing, or one more subdued, or an -unrestrainable curiosity, a need of health, or a humble, secret dream. -Some were talking to cheat the waiting, and exchanging names of hotels; -and old frequenters of the Engadine were instructing novices with a -knowing air. There was not one of them who was not aspiring with secret -ardour--sprung from the idlest or perhaps most puerile instincts, or -moral and material necessity, or from a dream--to the goal, to St. -Moritz; careless of everything except of arriving up there, where their -life should suffer the whip's lash, or the triumph of vanity, or the -victory of ambition, or health regained, or pleasure broadly conquered, -or an unknown fortune taken by assault. And when in the evening the -word _Samaden_ was clearly and precisely heard, and each felt that the -goal was almost touched, every torpor was scattered, every silence was -interrupted, every dream released before the reality. Jumping to their -feet in extreme impatience, all of them crowded to the windows and -doors. Still some minutes and yet more, and then the word resounded -from carriage to carriage, repeated softly and loudly from a hundred -voices: - -"St. Moritz! St. Moritz! St. Moritz!" - -In the obscurity of the night the spectacle unfolded itself as if in -a broad, deep stage setting. All the hill was gleaming with lights, -now feeble, now flaming. In capricious and charming lines burnt the -lights of the Palace Hotel, in lines direct and uniform those of the -Schweizerhof; like an immense edifice perforated with a thousand -windows, like a colossal plaything of giant babies, flamed the white -Grand Hotel, and further on high, at the summit, in triple lines, -gleamed at the foot of the mountains, the Hôtel Kulm. Around these -mastodons shone the other houses and smaller hotels. - -The blaze of lights from the Palace and the Grand hotels, and from the -whole crown of large lamps which illuminated the road from the village -to the baths, was wonderfully reflected in the dark lake; thus the -lights were multiplied and eyes and soul were dazed thereby. On the -opposite bank the wood, which skirted the lake, the Acla Silva, had -neither house nor light in its sylvan austerity. Directly above on the -Rosatch and Curvatsch the whiteness of the snow became even purer in -the dark night. Very far-away, in a circle on the horizon, the snows of -the Julier, the Polaschin, and the Albana gleamed whitely, and still -further away at the extremity glistened the Margna with her twin peaks. -A thousand eyes could not turn away from that beacon of light which -streamed from hotels and houses in patches, while from below, from the -Bad, long green streaks of colour flickered as they were reflected in -the lake. At the vision which scorched eyes and heart, as the train -drew up at the little terminus, there was a crowding and jostling to -descend and touch that land of every promise, and to be immersed in -that light. - -The omnibus conductors of the great hotels were running hither and -thither as they gathered together their travellers; noisily luggage -was piled upon luggage, and carriages departed and carriages returned -in rapid movement. White, green, and grey omnibuses were crammed with -travellers, and the laden vehicles turned and disappeared to the rapid -trot of their good horses, towards the upper village and the baths on -the shores of the lake. St. Moritz Dorf flamed scintillatingly in the -night, and flamed more blandly and afar St. Moritz Bad. - -Around Mrs. Clarke and the smiling Mabel Clarke a circle of railway -officials, servants, and porters was formed; the secretary of the -"Palace" arrived in a hurry in a private carriage, and was obsequiously -talking in English in a low voice. Mollified, the mother received the -homage, and Mabel smiled at the flaming lights of the uplands where for -a month she was to pass a gay and vivid existence, where her fresh and -strong youth should be intoxicated with joy. They left in the carriage -with Mrs. Broughton and the secretary. - -The exquisite French lady also left alone in a carriage, still -tranquil, still aloof, gave the address of the "Palace." The Viennese, -Else von Landau, with the large otter furs, who coughed and smelled of -sandal-wood, got into a carriage, and the mother with the startled eyes -climbed in with her and gave an address towards St. Moritz Bad. - -The young Spanish woman, so made up, who was bound for the Grand Hotel, -departed, disputing in rapid Spanish with her husband and appearing -annoyed at going to an hotel different from the Palace Hotel, whither -she had seen so many people of aristocratic appearance bound. But no -one, whether climbing into omnibus, or jumping into carriage, or taking -on foot the path that leads to the Dorf, gave a single glance to the -majestic mountains that had seen the passing of the ages, to the proud -and solitary peaks so near to the sky, to the quiet and dark waters of -the lake, to the brown woods, whence came fresh and sharp fragrances. -None gave them a glance. All were trembling with satisfaction at having -arrived at last; and were eager to immerse themselves in the exalting -stream of life up there amidst the light and the luxury and joy of -fantasy and senses. The young English girl only, of the virginal -countenance, before climbing into the "Kulm" bus, raised her veil, and -gazed with her periwinkle-blue eyes at the white heights so deserted -and imposing. A smile for the first time bloomed on the pure mouth. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -The large clock with face all of blue and hours marked in gold, which -adorns the slender, upright spire of the English church, sounded ten; -its grave and harmonious tones spread themselves in long, far-reaching -waves from the Dorf upon the light and fresh morning air. Standing -at the door of the Hôtel Caspar Badruth, Lucio Sabini, who was just -dressed, aristocratically fashionable, with his slender, tall figure, -and calm and peaceful countenance beneath the brim of his soft, dark -grey felt hat, compared the time with his watch. With even and elastic -step, casting a limpid, tranquil glance, now at the bright celestial -blue of the horizon, now at the deep, dense greenery of the pines, now -at the bright green of the dewy meadows, regarding everything with -eyes that were kindly and at times full of tenderness, he descended -the footpath from the Dorf to St. Moritz Bad. Ahead of him a woman's -figure was also going with even step, in a costume of correct cut, -though perhaps a little severe, of a rather purple hue, with a white -hat surrounded by a purple veil. In the features and very fair hair, -proud profile, and pale cheeks he recognised the Comtesse Marcella de -la Ferté Guyon, a young French lady whom he knew slightly, from meeting -her for two or three years at St. Moritz, and who always exercised upon -him the attraction of silent and proud women who surround themselves -with mystery, to conceal a love, a sorrow, a tragedy, or even to hide -their aridness and coldness for all such things which for a long time -have been dead within them. - -"Do I disturb you, madam?" he asked, placing himself beside the -Countess, after having greeted her, with the easy yet serious grace -that was particularly his. - -"Oh, no!" she replied, with a very slight smile, both courteous and -proud. "I am going to St. Moritz Bad." - -"So am I. You are going for a walk like me?" - -"Like you, I think not," she murmured, but kindly. - -"And why, Signora?" - -The Countess was silent for an instant, as if hesitating in her reserve. - -"I am going to church," she replied hurriedly, _sotto voce_. - -"Ah," exclaimed the other, reproved, "is it a festival to-day?" - -"No, it is not a feast day," she murmured, without adding anything -further. - -"Are you going to the Catholic church of the Bad?" - -"Yes; it is less full of well-known people, of smart people," she -murmured, with lowered eyes. - -"I imagine, madam, that you will pray for all sinners?" he asked, -forcing a smile, to enliven the gloomy conversation. - -"I try to," she replied vaguely. - -"Then through you I am sure to obtain grace from Heaven," he concluded, -with a smile. - -The lady glanced at him with her proud, already distant eyes, from -which in the past rivers of tears must have flowed, clouding them for -ever. Lucio bowed, pressed the hand she offered him, and left her, -walking a little more rapidly to get away and leave her in freedom. - -"She is a tower of ivory, but so interesting," he thought, as he -lightly resumed his way in the soft air. - -For an instant, moved by a keen desire to conquer and penetrate that -solitary, closed soul, he thought of getting Francis Mornand, who was -the fashionable chronicler of the Engadine, to tell him the private -history of the Comtesse Marcella de la Ferté Guyon, to lay siege to -that heart, and with a complete knowledge of its long agony, to obtain -a precious victory there, where no one should again penetrate. That -sudden and strange desire of his of conquest over the prisoner who -believed in her own freedom fascinated him. But a young woman's face -was smiling at him from some distance as she came towards him, and he -halted beside a young girl who was climbing towards the Dorf with rapid -steps, while her mother, a middle-aged woman, followed more slowly. She -was a girl of rare beauty, with large, dark eyes furnished with long, -dark lashes, a lovely mouth curved up a little at the corners, like that -of a Greek statue of Erigone, and a white complexion over which was -suffused a flush of health. - -Still, every now and then the eyes became hard, with a scrutinising -glance--the mouth closed with a half-mocking and half-disdainful smile, -and her whole countenance, that resembled a flower of youth and beauty, -seemed a flower laden with poison. Lucio Sabini and Lia Norescu, a -young Roumanian, immediately plunged into a lively, gay, and slightly -sarcastic conversation, while the mother listened silently, with an air -of complacency and indulgence. - -"Ah, here is our divine Lia!" Lucio exclaimed, as he held the little -gloved hand in his. "St. Moritz was dead without you." - -"The Society For The Embellishment of St. Moritz made me come," she -replied, laughing; "the Kurverein wrote to me, and I couldn't resist." - -"And how many suitors? How many flirts?" - -"Many, far too many; I can spare some for other girls." - -"New and old?" - -"Many new and few old; nearly all new." - -"Handsome, rich, amusing?" - -"Nearly all tiresome." - -And a gesture of contempt contracted her mouth, that so much resembled -a flower, and the eyes became wicked. - -"And with whom are you flirting, Sabini?" - -"I should like to flirt with you; but you have always spurned me." - -"Always!" - -"Even now?" - -"Even now. Why don't you flirt with Madame Lawrence, the beautiful -Lawrence, the divine Lawrence, this year's professional beauty?" - -"Thanks! She is too beautiful for me. Like you, she has twelve flirts." - -"I have fourteen," replied Lia Norescu promptly, as she flashed her -magnificent eyes. "And Miss Clarke, with her dowry of fifty, one -hundred, or one hundred and fifty millions; why not pay court to her?" - -Never in a soft womanly voice, in a voice young and sweet, in a French -pronounced exquisitely, hissed such irony and such bitterness. - -"I do not pay court to millionaire girls," replied Lucio Sabini, a -little coldly. - -"You court the others, the poor ones," replied Lia vivaciously; "but -you marry neither: you don't want to marry anyone." - -"How do you know?" - -"Oh, I am always well informed," replied Lia profoundly; "it is -impossible to deceive me." - -"Then you are a girl without illusions?" - -"I am a monster, Sabini; I have no illusions." And they left each -other, both laughing loudly and falsely at the last word. Ah, he knew -the secret of Lia Norescu, the beautiful Roumanian girl, who spoke and -wrote five languages perfectly, who was of high mettle, and who for -five years had been everywhere cosmopolitan society was to be found, at -Cairo, Nice, Rome, St. Moritz, Ostend, and Biarritz, in search of a -rich husband--very rich, immensely rich--for she had not even a penny -for a dowry. Her father and mother, her brothers and cousins, all urged -on the beautiful girl this marriage of money, and some of them, at an -immense sacrifice, provided the travelling expenses; some gave the -dresses, and some the cloaks and hats. Lia Norescu appeared everywhere, -like a flower laden with an irresistible attraction, followed by the -quiet and indulgent mother who adored her daughter, and everywhere she -had her court of admirers, an ever-changing court. No one held out -more than one or two seasons, all vanished and others appeared. But no -one remained, and the flower within her soul contained an ever greater -poison of disillusion. - -"Poor little girl, poor little girl," murmured Sabini to himself, -with sincere sympathy, as he withdrew. He was sorry for that splendid -creature, forced at twenty-two to fight a hard fate without results, -when her beauty had the most imperious right to riches and luxury. And -softly his spirit fell in love with the idea of being able to offer -to the young woman of irresistible beauty the treasures of the earth, -of offering her a rich and powerful friend, or a brother of his, or -himself, perhaps, so that all the deep poison which rendered that -flower venomous might vanish, and Lia Norescu might be a colour, a -perfume, a splendour without cark and fret, without blemish. - -By then his steps had absently led him to the meadows that surround the -Catholic church of St. Moritz Bad, and the soft grass bathed by dew, -and brushed by hidden rivulets, exhaled a pungent fragrance. Desirous -of sensations even more intense in their simplicity, he ascended a path -that leads to a wood dominating the lake. Already the path, in that -vivid, bright hour, in which the colour almost of heaven was reflected -on everything, with an air which to breathe was almost to drink the -elixir of life, was being traversed by men and women, in couples and -groups; some walking hurriedly in their desire to immerse themselves -in the shade of the wood, others more slowly, but nearly all silently. -Lucio Sabini's acute eye, on the alert for every fresh face, a lady's -especially, discovered here and there those who, as they traversed the -little path bathed by the sun, which further on penetrates beneath the -trees, as under a soft arch of verdure, carried in their hearts and -glances and actions the soft and exhilarating beginning of a little, or -perhaps a big love affair. Even more acutely he scrutinised the faces -and expressions of those who, tired and oppressed by a love declaration -too long prolonged, at which they had grown accustomed, now refreshed -and rested, were again joining hands up there, as they recognised the -clasp of yore amongst the protecting trees. - -He entered the wood alone. A secret, biting nostalgia seized him -because of his solitude on that heavenly morning. More restlessly and -inquisitively his eyes sought those he met, the eyes of women and -girls who, dressed in white--graceful matutinal sprites--came and -went beneath the verdure of the trees, which here and there the sun's -rays rendered bright and yellow. In a corner of the wood, beneath a -lofty pine he discovered a well-known figure. The woman was seated -on a great white boulder, and with lowered eyes was tracing with her -parasol amongst the grass and stones some strange letters of a name -or a word. Approaching softly he recognised a Hungarian lady, who was -staying alone in the same hotel--a Clara Howath, who always appeared at -meal-times carrying a book which she read during the repast. She had -a rather dissipated face, with two vague, sad eyes and a little pale -mouth like a dead rose: she was fashionably dressed, as seemed natural -to her. Lucio drew nearer, and when he was close to the Hungarian lady -he noticed that she was weeping silently. - -"Are you in trouble, Madame?" he asked in a low voice, discreetly. - -Clara Howath showed no surprise at his approach, or that he should be -talking to her and asking her so much. She raised her tear-stricken -face, and replied naturally: - -"Yes, Signor." - -"Can I help you?" he insisted in an insinuating voice, slightly moved. - -"No, Signor," she replied simply. - -As he stood beside her and hid her from those who were passing in the -little path, he looked at her attentively. Her right hand was loaded -with precious stones, the other wore on the ring finger a gold circlet, -a love token. - -"Have you lost someone--someone who was dear to you?" - -Oh, what desolation there was in the woman's eyes as she raised them to -him, so supplicatingly and so desperately. - -"Is he dead?" he asked, disturbed. - -"No," she said, "I have lost him, but he is not dead." - -The pale mouth was twisted in sorrow, as if she wished to stifle a -great cry, or a sob. Slightly pale, Lucio Sabini said in a low voice: - -"I beg your pardon, Signora." - -"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," she replied, with sad -sweetness, shaking her head. - -Lucio Sabini's step became slower as he withdrew into the wood. -Suddenly the shining light of the sun amidst the high branches seemed -colourless to him, and feeble the twittering of the little birds among -the bushes, and languishing the flight of the white butterflies amidst -the fragrant clumps of wild mint and dark wild vanilla. His heart -contracted with sorrow for the strange lady, Clara Howath, whose name -alone he knew, whose deep grief, breathed forth from her soul, made -her no longer recognise either the shame of tears or womanly reserve, -to such an extent as to tell all her misery to a stranger in a public -road, amongst strange people passing and staring. He would have liked -to have been _the other_; he who was not dead but whom the deserted -woman had lost for ever. He would have liked to have been _the other_, -so far-off and forgetful, the traitor who had perjured himself and -forgotten; so that he might return to the wood, where the azure of the -firmament and the blue of the lake peeped amidst the trees, to take -that unhappy woman in his arms and kiss away her tears. - -Drawing farther away he was once more Lucio Sabini, and the visions -seen that morning were already settling in his imagination; but still -more feverishly within him became the need of the unknown love, of the -unknown lady whom he had come to seek amongst the mountains, of the -woman whom he should love an hour, a day, a month, and whom he should -never see again, who perhaps might love him for a summer evening or a -summer morning: but an unknown woman of another land and another race. - -Up above, in a remote corner of the wood, he halted and sat down on -a tree trunk, which perhaps had been struck down by lightning in an -autumnal storm, or perhaps had been transported from the heights of -Corvatsch by the fury of the torrent in winter. The trunk lay there -amongst the tall grass and rocks, the little violas with yellow eyes, -and tall and slender marguerites. Lucio sat down and drew from his coat -pocket a lady's purse which he had found the day before, towards dusk, -at the Dorf, in a solitary lane close to the tennis-courts. It was a -smallish purse of chain silver, with a broad encircling silver hinge -adorned with three large turquoises; a silver chain kept it suspended -through two rings. For the fourth time Lucio opened the lady's purse, -and again examined its contents, minutely and curiously. First of all -there was a little handkerchief of white cambric, adorned with a fine -embroidery of white flowers, and in the corner was a tiny initial--an -"L." From the cambric a subtle and feverish perfume exhaled: every -time as Lucio placed it to his nostrils he had a sense of delight. He -repeated the gesture, and again he had the same sensation. The purse -also contained, slipped through a gold ring, some charms in silver and -gold: a medal for a good journey with a figure of St. Christopher; a -golden olive, harbinger of peace; a little bluish-green scarab; another -medal with just a name inscribed and nothing else--Lilian; and a small -hand on which were engraved some oriental figures. One by one Lucio -for the fourth time passed these small jewels in review, turning and -returning them between his fingers, seeking to discover something -fresh. Then he set himself to study the last object which that feminine -purse contained. - -The last object, the most mysterious and important, was a little -pocket-book of dark blue leather, closed by a slender silver pencil. -Inside, on the first page, was stuck down a four-leaved clover, a -little shamrock that had been sought for and found in the fields, and -after being dried, had been pasted on the first leaf, and underneath it -in fine letters, firm and long, was the name--ever that name--Lilian. -Many of the pages of the pocket-book were covered with lines of -writing, sometimes in ink, sometimes in pencil. They seemed to be -notes thrown there according to the day and the state of the soul. -Without stirring from his ruined tree trunk, the dark bark of which -was peeling, with his feet amidst the deep grass and woodland flowers, -Lucio re-read page for page what the unknown Lilian had written in -the pocket-book. A date in English on a page, a date which went back -two years, to December, and still in English, Portia's exclamation -in _The Merchant of Venice_: "The world is too heavy for my little -body." Further, still in English, a singular phrase: "One must wait in -hope and faith. _Someone_ will come: surely he will come." Then, in -a medley, the name of a French or German woman, with some address in -Paris or Vienna. On another page, another character, still feminine, -had written in English a farewell: "Dear, dearest Lilian, don't forget -me; I won't forget you," with a signature--Ethel. Lucio Sabini read -on with immense attention, examining the phrases, words, and letters, -seeking to divine even more than they said and showed. In French, on -another page, again in the writing of the mysterious one, were two -questions: "Must one live to love? Must one die to love?" And at last -on the penultimate page, in a scrawling writing, like a child that is -striving to write something he does not understand, in almost round -letters, was a verse of Dante's, copied with an orthographical error: -"_Amor che a cor gentil ratto si apprende._" - -Each time at these words so vibrant with love's emotion which the -unknown woman's hand had copied letter for letter, which surely she -must have understood or someone have explained to her; at these words -of the poet Lucio Sabini trembled, charmed as he was by brief loves -encompassed by poesy, because of their mystery and their brevity. - -Now there came the last page, where in haste the woman had written in -pencil in French: "How high and close to heaven are the mountains! I -should like to return here in winter, to the highest mountain, amidst -the whitest and purest snow...." - -There was nothing else. Mechanically Lucio closed the book, replacing -the slender silver pencil. He replaced, too, the little cambric -kerchief, the charms, and the little book in the purse, thereby -stretching the clasp to close it. For some time, as he pursued his -fantasy, he dreamed of her who had lost that purse, and he saw in his -dream the figures of many ladies who surprised him and looked at him, -who smiled and beckoned to him to follow them, and each of them, it -seemed to him, might be the unknown Lilian; now dark and handsome, now -slender as a reed, now with eyes sky-blue and smiling, now with eyes -black and languishing. - -Suddenly in the air the Dorf clock, blue with gilded hours, struck -ponderously and harmoniously half-past eleven. The sound spread itself -along the lake and in the woods. Lucio Sabini burst into laughter at -his dream and at himself. Perhaps--in fact surely--she who had lost the -purse so full of poetical matter, and bore the floral name of Lilian, -might be an English old maid, angular, with pince-nez. Lucio laughed at -himself and his dream, which melted in the clear air of that heavenly -morning. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -At midday, before and after luncheon, the telephones at all the -hotels and villas did nothing but ring in their little cupboards, and -in German, English, and French--especially in German--there was an -incessant calling, questioning and answering. The morning that had -spread over the Engadine a sky which seemed a shimmering mantle of -azure silk, and that had given to the eye an inexplicable brightness, -and to every panting breast a contented appearance, almost as if -it were a strange, sublime potion, had developed into a splendid -afternoon. Men and women who had lazily passed the morning hours in an -hotel room, or in strolling up and down the nearer meeting-places of -the Bad and Dorf, were seized with a desire of faring forth, away along -the majestic roads and paths and hills--everywhere an afternoon could -be lived in the open air. - -In the hotel halls and drawing-rooms there was a continual making -and organising of plans, a calling up by telephone of other hotels, -coach-hirers, and remote restaurants up above and tea-rooms, to summon -friends and acquaintances together, to order carriages and bespeak teas -for fifteen and twenty persons. Frau Mentzel, the exceedingly wealthy -Hamburg Jewess--she herself was a Dutchwoman, her husband an American, -and her sons had been born in different countries of the world--who was -unable to live without a court of ten or fifteen persons at lunch or -dinner, and who could not pass twenty-four hours without changing her -dress four times, who threw her money out of the window and yet always -talked about money, and quoted the price of her clothes and how much -the flowers that adorned her table had cost; Frau Mentzel, courted by -all the parasites of both sexes, telephoned to her friends from the -"Stahlbad," where she was staying, and which at all hours of the day -was filled with the noise of her train, to come at once, as she was -setting out for the Fexthal glacier to take tea up there, and on every -side the usual parasites said yes; but others, the smart people, whom -Frau Mentzel would have liked to have had with her, fenced and adduced -excuses of other outings and excursions. - -Don Lucio Sabini answered Frau Mentzel at the telephone that he was -unable to come since he was engaged for tea elsewhere, moreover the -Fexthal glacier was unfortunately too far-off for him to go and look -her up. The beautiful Madame Lawrence, from the "Palace," advised all -her suitors and a lady friend or two that they were going in five or -six carriages to Maloja, that they would leave at three, not later, so -as to arrive at five at the Kursaal Maloja; but her lady friends were -few, all more or less insignificant as to physiognomies, dresses and -hats, in order that she should shine like a jewel among them. Vittorio -Lante, who for an evening had attached himself to the court of the -divinity of the year, excused himself from going to the Maloja; for -with a group of friends he had been invited by Mrs. Clarke to tea at -the Golf Club. Countess Fulvia Gioia telephoned from the "Victoria" -to two of her friends to ask if they were disposed to walk with her -to Pontresina and back, a walk through the woods of about three -hours, but so pleasant and peaceful amidst the pines, along the white -torrent that descends from the Bernina. Although her second youth was -waning, Countess Fulvia kept her beauty, preserving her health by -living a life of action, ardour, and open air, passing July at the -seaside, August in the mountains, the autumn in the country: so all her -youthful fascination lasted, and that in homage to the last powerful -and profound love which held her completely, to which she was bound by -an indissoluble knot because it was the last. Of the two friends, the -Duchesse de Langeais, a French woman of her own age, who treasured her -beauty as a precious thing in the half-light, refused, fearing light, -air, and fatigue, lest they should all discover the invincible traces -of age, and fearing lest certain weaknesses and troubles should be too -apparent after such a walk. The other, Donna Carlotta Albano, an old -lady, who welcomed without sorrow the end of beauty, youth, and love, -as she set herself to love what remains after love is over, accepted. - -From Sils Maria the Misses Ellen and Norah West telephoned their friend -Mabel Clarke to ask if they could look in at the "Palace" about four -o'clock to take her with them to tea at the "Belvoir," the restaurant -half-way from Pontresina; but smiling at the telephone Mabel Clarke -declared that mamma had invited some delightful young men to tea with -them at the Golf Club, and that, even so near as they were to St. -Moritz, it was quite impossible that day. - -At the Grand Hotel the Spanish lady with the soft eyebrows painted -black, and lips painted red, with cheeks disappearing beneath a stratum -of _veloutine Rachel_, but in spite of this of a most alluring beauty, -Donna Mercédès de Fuentes, was torturing herself and her husband, -really to know where the high society of the Engadine would foregather -at tea on that day, and where she could take a sister and her friend, -who had arrived the day before from Madrid, to show them this high -society. At each different news with which Francis Mornand, the -chronicler of the Engadine, whimsically furnished her, Donna Mercédès -de Fuentes, restless and agitated, changed her mind, suffering in -every fibre from her snobbishness. - -By two o'clock, and at three and four, the coming and going, the -meeting and disappearing of the large stage-coaches drawn by four -horses and full of gentlemen and ladies, of large brakes filled with -smiling girls and young men, of landaus drawn by impatient horses, of -victorias with solitary couples, became even more vertiginous. - -There was a running greeting from one carriage to another, a moment's -halt to invite each other to set out together, and a prompt acceptance -from someone who was jumping up into his carriage smiling. There was -a general giving of appointments for dinner and for the evening, with -a gay cry in French, in English, or in German; there was a cracking -of whips, a tinkling of horses' bells, and sounding of coach horns, -and over all a fluttering of the veils of every colour and shade which -surrounded the ladies' heads. - -The carriages descended towards Silvaplana, Sils, Fexthal, and the -Maloja; they ascended towards Pontresina, the Roseg glacier, and the -Morteratch glacier, towards Samaden and Celerina. The departure of -the five or six carriages of Madame Lawrence towards the Maloja was -impressive. She was in the first in a completely white costume with -face and head enveloped in a close green veil, but so transparent that -the large grey-blue eyes and the golden hair, strikingly combed into -big tresses, were well discernible. - -As for Frau Mentzel's party, her stage-coach and other equipages had -ascended and descended three times from St. Moritz Bad to St. Moritz -Dorf, with a great flourish of horns, to pick up people, but in reality -to attract attention. However, it was all done so late that they would -never reach the Fexthal glacier, and, at the most, the restaurant for -tea. Still that sufficed. - -Donna Mercédès de Fuentes, as she descended in her large landau -towards the Maloja, experienced a heart-burning at seeing the equipage -of Her Royal Highness, the reigning Princess of Salm, directed towards -"Belvoir," where, it seemed, Her Royal Highness had invited ten or a -dozen French, English, German, and Italian ladies, actually the ten or -twelve noblest of the noble. Also the carriage of Her Royal Highness, -the Grand Duchess of Gotha, was directed up above; but she was not -going to tea. She was going to Celerina, as she did each day, to visit -the great doctor who lived there. The Grand Duchess was ill, but to -deceive herself into feeling better she went to the doctor daily. And -Donna Mercédès de Fuentes registered a vow to herself that if ever she -were ill in the Engadine, she would only allow herself to be healed by -the doctor of the Grand Duchess at Celerina. - -A great moral laziness had seized Lucio Sabini on that second portion -of the day. Two or three telephone calls had invited him to go in -gay and amiable society to two or three different places, and two or -three easy excuses had served him to decline the invitations--the -Roseg glacier, a boating party on the Lake of the Maloja, a visit to -Friedrich Nietzsche's house at Sils Maria. All were excuses to meet -once more, after a hundred times, people already known; to talk on the -way, without ever looking where they were passing, of the incidental -things of the day before, and of the days before that, and then to -finish, not before the colossal wall of a glacier, not in a poetical -crossing of a lonely lake amidst the lofty black mountains, not before -a little garden of rose bushes, geraniums, and yellow marguerites, that -the eyes of the poet of Zarathustra had seen born and perish, from May -to September, at Sils Maria, but at tea-tables laden with toast, cakes -and pastry and plates of confectionery at the restaurants half-way -between the glaciers, in the smart _latterie_, in the halls of large -hotels, and vestibules of small hotels. "Glaciers, lakes, hills, large -tracts, villages," thought Lucio Sabini, in a bad temper; "all little -excuses to wrap up in a large veil and drive in a carriage, speaking -ill of worthy people and beautiful things--and to take tea!" - -However, to conquer his attack of misanthropy, after lunch he went -for a stroll along the road, to excuse himself again to those whose -invitation he had refused, to greet some more sympathetic and elect -acquaintance, and to watch some unknown faces passing, those solitary -faces that attracted him powerfully. What a lot of people he had seen -thus, climbing, descending, and stopping half-way, and setting out -again in the early hours of the afternoon, as he quietly came and went -to the "Palace" and the "Badruth," stopping and chatting with everyone, -foregathering with some friend just about to leave, commenting with -irony and sometimes with bitterness on certain bizarre, clamorous and -scandalous events. But still all this giddy worldliness had not excited -him. Gradually he saw everyone he knew and did not know pass up and -down; then a dominant thought, at first vague and uncertain, afterwards -more insistent, mastered him. At noon, on entering his hotel, at the -porter's box, he had read a notice in German that the day before a -lady's silver purse had been lost in the gardens near the tennis-court, -and it was requested that the purse should be returned for a reward to -the porter of the Hôtel Kulm. - -"An hotel for American and English women," he thought at once. "This -Lilian will be a governess of fifty, with a maroon veil to her hat. She -will give me a dollar for a reward in exchange for her purse." And he -laughed at his little romance. - -Moreover, when, through a singular and inexplicable motive of -fastidiousness, he had refused all the invitations that would have -carried him far-away from the Hôtel Kulm, and had seen the great -crowd set off gradually, excited by another experience and the life in -the open air, but seated in carriages beneath rugs and veils; when he -found himself alone, he was again conquered by the desire of finding -and knowing her who had lost the silver purse. He thought himself -sometimes puerile and sometimes downright grotesque. But he believed -in opportunity; so a little later he watched the simpler, modest, and -unknown people set off on foot through the Alpine paths to the Meierei, -to Waldschlossli, to Oberalpina or Unteralpina, all those who were fond -of walking or could not afford to spend money on carriages, and he saw -them disappear along the roads and lanes, beneath the trees, or across -the tall grass. Towards four o'clock he observed that the broad roads -and paths were becoming almost deserted, and silence and peace to be -enveloping St. Moritz Bad and St. Moritz Dorf. Then it was that slowly -he took the path that leads from the central place of the Dorf, where -the tram stops, to the Engadine "Kulm." - -He thought: "Probably this Lilian is very ugly; but surely she has a -beautiful soul. What does it matter? I shall be very polite to her for -some minutes." - -On arriving at the big door of the "Kulm" he entered slowly, to make -inquiries from the porter, as if it were of no consequence. - -"The person who has lost the silver purse," replied the porter at once, -"is Miss Temple." - -"Ah," said Lucio, "and is Miss Temple in the hotel?" - -"No, she has gone out for a walk. You can leave the purse with me." - -"No; I would rather return. Do you know where Miss Temple has gone?" - -"She has gone out as usual with her friend, Miss Ford. I believe they -have gone towards Chasselas." - -"Towards Chasselas? Two single ladies? Both young?" As a matter of fact -he waited for the reply with secret trepidation. - -"One is young, the other is not." - -And Lucio Sabini, like a boy, or a student, did not want to, and did -not know how to, ask anything else. He turned his back, left the hotel, -and stopping for a moment, he tried to remember the way that leads -from the Dorf to Chasselas. It was a walk, at a good pace, of about -three-quarters of an hour. He believed in opportunity. He set out; but -he had not walked three minutes before he met a group of people, one -of whom greeted him with a smile. Mrs. Clarke and Miss Mabel Clarke -were climbing towards the Golf Club accompanied by various men. The -graceful American girl, with her slender and flexible figure, was -walking well in front, in a light grey dress, her little head crowned -with a hat surrounded by roses, beneath which her chestnut hair surged -in rebellious waves, breaking over the white forehead and covering the -tips of the little pink ears. Beside her was Don Vittorio Lante della -Scala, and the two were carrying on a friendly and lively conversation, -as they looked and smiled at each other, Vittorio Lante with sweet and -serious eyes, together with that quick virile smile that is a grace -in an Italian face. Behind came Mrs. Clarke in a very fashionable and -rich dress, certainly too rich to go to tea at the Golf Club. On her -old lace cravat shone a solitary jewel, to wit, a small thread of gold -from which were hanging, like drops, two enormous emeralds shaped like -pears. On her head was the large hat with the feather that the more -mature American women delight in at all hours of the day and night. -Mrs. Clarke's countenance was, as usual, calm and inexpressive, with -Mabel's fine features which had become gross and fat. Beside her was -the Marquis de Jouy, a young Frenchman, very brilliant and witty, full -of pretensions, whose fixed idea was to speak well of all countries -save his own, and constantly to speak ill of France; thereby he -thought himself most original. His latest caprice was for America and -Americans; he sought them out everywhere, going into ecstasies at every -speech and every act of theirs. There was also the Vicomte di Loewe, -a Belgian, a most ardent and fortunate gambler, who always attached -himself to gamblers of both sexes who were rich and inexperienced; and -two or three other Austrian and French gentlemen, all more or less -courtiers of the mother or daughter, for diverse objects, but whose -sole magnet as a matter of fact was the Clarke money. - -Lucio Sabini stopped for a moment, as he smiled at Vittorio Lante: -with an expressive glance he questioned, approved, and congratulated -discreetly. With a single glance Vittorio also answered, thanked, and -hoped discreetly. The two friends understood each other without any -of the bystanders having understood. The Clarke party pursued its -way towards the Golf Club, while Lucio Sabini set out for the Wald -Promenade, a path that dominates the main road from St. Moritz Dorf -to Campfer, and that guards St. Moritz Bad from on high amidst the -trees. It was a little path now entirely discovered to view, showing -the country down below with a lake that seemed much smaller, like a -silver cup, beneath a sky that was growing white as the day declined, -now hidden by dense foliage of large bushes and trees. At that hour in -which all had reached their goal, in which carriages and people were -in front of the restaurants, and in the _latterie_ and hotel saloons, -ladies, with veils unloosed, were carrying cups of tea to their lips, -while the men were eating buttered toast; in that declining hour of -the day not a soul was traversing the Wald Promenade. Lucio Sabini -hurried, though he smiled at his haste, as he thought that perhaps, no -certainly, he would never meet Miss Lilian Temple and her friend, who -quite likely had not even gone to Chasselas or had taken another way, -or would take another way thence to return to the Dorf; whom perhaps -he would not recognise as he did not know them, for he could not ask -all the ladies he should meet if they were Miss Lilian Temple and Miss -Ford. But that day--why, he knew not--he believed ever more firmly in -Destiny. Suddenly the path inclined, the trees became scarcer: the Wald -Promenade, the walk in the wood, ended, and he saw at once that he -could not be very far from Chasselas. - -The day continued to decline. Already the sun was hidden between the -two lofty snow peaks, between the proud Monte Albana and the majestic -Julier. Much further to right and left the more modest heights of the -Polaschin and the gentle Suvretta at that first hour of sunset had -become light and transparent beneath the pearlish-grey sky. In front -of him Lucio saw the broad road that he had followed parallely, which -starts from the Dorf, incline below, all white behind a promontory, -as it goes towards Campfer. To his right a small, green, open valley -climbed in a pleasant curve, with scarcely sloping meadows crowned with -small hedges and trees, towards a little group of white houses. To -the left a large grassy bank, leafy and very dense, hid the rumbling -course of the Inn with its rocks, and the road that returned to St. -Moritz Bad. Further below the scene opened out, giving a glimpse of the -little lake of Campfer with the village nestling on its shore, then a -large tongue of land, and much further still the lake of Silvaplana, -and further off, but imposing with its two white peaks, was the Margna -covered with eternal snow. - -Lucio stood and watched. He remembered now that those little white -houses up there on the ascending little valley were Chasselas. He -looked again, beyond and around. It was the point where the four roads -divide; in fact the four sign-posts were a little further on, with -their little red flags picked out in white with four inscriptions. If -Miss Temple had gone to Chasselas, and if she had not already returned -thence, she must pass there. A fountain hard by was singing its little -water song. There was a seat there: he sat down. Some people passed -as they came from Chasselas: first two Germans, husband and wife, the -one in front, the other behind, with gymnastic step, both red in the -face and taciturn, the wife with a black skirt held up by some elastic -bands; then came a nursemaid who was hurrying with her two little ones; -then no one else. The day declined. - -Suddenly, as he looked a little ahead, Lucio perceived a small white -wall encircling a field: a little open gate joined together the two -sides of the small wall. This little wall was so low that flowers -with long stems showed themselves above it, bright flowers that bent -themselves slightly to the evening wind. He thought that it might be -one of the numerous pretty and flourishing gardens which surround the -little villas and houses of Switzerland; but he perceived neither villa -nor house. Instead he discovered amidst the clusters of flowers some -white stones. Then he understood that, without seeking for it, he had -found a little cemetery, the little cemetery of St. Moritz Dorf, far -from habitation, perched aloft behind a wood, a little cemetery all -flowery, gracious, and solitary. Immediately afterwards he saw, along -the wall, two feminine forms leaning over to look at the modest tombs -so well surrounded by groups of little plants and brightly coloured -flowers. The two ladies were separated from each other by a few paces, -and they were watching silently. - -"Miss Temple?" asked Lucio Sabini of the first lady, taking off his hat. - -A serious face already touched by years turned to him. The lady replied -in a low voice: - -"No, sir." And turning towards her companion, she called out in English: - -"Darling!" - -The other came forward at once. - -"Miss Temple?" asked Lucio Sabini again. - -The young woman raised her eyes of purest blue, whence emanated a sweet -light; a slight blush coursed beneath the transparent skin of her -virginal face, and she replied: - -"Yes, sir." - -A long minute of silence followed. The three were standing near the -beautiful, little, solitary cemetery, where had been sleeping in the -high mountains for years, or months, or days, unknown men, women, and -children; the flowers were hardly bowing over the stones, which were -becoming even whiter in the sunset. - -"I beg pardon," murmured Lucio, recovering his composure. "I have to -restore you something, Miss Temple." - -"My purse--really!" she exclaimed, advancing a little, somewhat -anxiously. - -"Here it is, _miss_." - -And drawing the precious object from his pocket he gave it to Miss -Lilian Temple. The beautiful eyes glanced with sweetness, and the -mouth, so perfect, smiled; the little hand clasped the recovered -object, as if to caress it. - -"Thank you, sir," she added. - -Then she stretched out the little hand that was free, gloved in white. -He took it lightly and kept it but for a moment in his own, then he -released it with a deep bow. - -Miss May Ford, silent, indifferent, strange, waited. Now all three -were silent, while for a long time Lucio Sabini fixed his eyes on the -enchanting face for which the blond hair made a soft aureole. At last -he said, with a courteous smile: - -"Did not Miss Temple promise a reward to whomsoever brought back her -purse?" - -The girl, marvelling a little, raised her eyebrows, questioning the -Italian gentleman without speaking. - -"Lucio Sabini asks her, as reward, to be allowed to accompany her now -as far as the 'Kulm.'" - -"Certainly, sir," replied the girl at once in a frank way. "My dear -friend, Miss May Ford, Signor Lucio Sabini." - -The elderly English lady replied with cold courtesy to the greeting of -Don Lucio Sabini. And without giving another glance to the surrounding -country, which was enveloping itself in the finest tints, from a -delicate violet to the most delicate green, the three withdrew from the -quiet cemetery and proceeded silently along the broad high road that -leads to the Dorf. Lilian Temple's step was rather quick, and Lucio -Sabini adapted his to the girl's. Miss May Ford went more slowly. - -"Are you glad, Miss Temple, to have found your purse?" he began to say -in his insinuating voice that in French became even more penetrating. - -"So glad: I am very grateful to you, Signor." - -"You valued it, then?" - -"Very much." - -"Perhaps it was a souvenir, or a gift?" he ventured to ask, -scrutinising those beautiful blue eyes. - -But the girl lowered her eyelids; she did not reply. - -He understood that he had asked too much; they were silent for a little. - -"Do you know Italy, Miss Temple?" he resumed. - -"I know Italy; not all, though," she replied, again courteously. "I -hope to see it all later on." - -"And do you like our country, Miss Temple?" - -"Yes, Signor," she murmured, her voice a little veiled. - -Again their eyes met and fixed each other for an instant, as they both -walked a little ahead. - -"Which city pleased you most, Miss Temple?" he asked, bending towards -her, lowering his voice still more. - -"Florence," she replied. - -"Florence; I ought to have guessed it!" - -"Why guess it?" - -"Didn't you write a verse from Dante in your pocket-book?" he asked, -looking fixedly at her. - -"Then you read my pocket-book?" she exclaimed, stopping, confused and -hurt. - -"Why, yes! Have I done wrong, Miss Temple?" - -She bent her head; her mouth became serious and almost severe, and she -hurried her step. - -"Have I really done so wrong, Miss Temple?" he asked, this time with -genuine anxiety. - -She shook her head without replying; her gentle face had already become -sweet again. - -"Anyone would have read that pocket-book, Miss Temple," he added, quite -sadly. - -"Not an Englishman, Signor," she said in a low voice. - -"That is true, not an Englishman; but an Italian, yes," he replied. -"Our fantasy is as ardent as our hearts. You must understand us to -excuse us, Miss Temple." - -"It doesn't matter, Signor," she replied seriously, with a little smile -of indulgence. "I know Italy, but not Italians. If they are as ardent -as you say, it no longer matters having read my pocket-book, Signor." - -"And you will pardon an Italian who confesses his fault, and is very -sorry for it?" he asked in that penetrating tone of his, where always -there seemed to be deep emotion. - -Miss Lilian Temple looked at him an instant, furtively. - -"Oh, yes, Signor; I pardon you willingly." - -And gracefully, with a spontaneous, youthful gesture, she again offered -him her hand, as if rancour could not exist in her gentle soul. At -such ingenuous kindness the man, over whose mind had passed such -fearful tempests, leaving their ineffaceable traces, felt a tremor -of complacency, as he pressed that little hand, which was given him -without hesitation and so sincerely. - -It grew darker. A pungent breath of wind arose, whirling and causing -the trees to rustle. The two ladies wanted to put on their coats, -which up to then they had carried on their arms, and Lucio performed -the gallant duty of helping both of them, then he exchanged some words -with Miss May Ford, the elderly lady who kept silent with such English -dignity. - -He, however, with his constant desire of conquest, instead of returning -her speech in French, as he had done with Miss Temple, had the -politeness to speak in English, a tongue that he spoke slowly, but with -certainty and some elegance. - -Upon the rather severe and purposely impassive face of Miss Ford, there -appeared for the first time a gracious expression. Now the three walked -together, Lucio having Miss Ford on his right and Lilian Temple on the -other side of her friend: all three talked English. A sudden wind that -was becoming rough revolved in whirling circles. On the road by which -they were pursuing their return, and on which they still more hurried -their steps, there was a continuous returning of all the equipages -which three hours previously had left the Dorf for Sils, Fexthal, the -Maloja, and which to get home more quickly were returning at a lively -trot from the Campfer road towards the Dorf. In the carriages the -women had put on their large, dark cloaks, and the white and light -dresses of the early hours of the afternoon, all joyous in the sun, had -vanished: cold and silent, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks. -Some had buried their necks in thick fur stoles, and the large, flowing -veils had been closed round the hats, and tied round the neck in ample -knots, like large handkerchiefs or scarves. - -The men had put on their overcoats, raising the collars, and they had -lowered the flaps of their soft felt hats. In many of the carriages the -broad rugs, some white and soft, others striped like tiger skins, had -been spread. On all who were returning there was seemingly a feeling -of weariness. The women lolled well back in the seats of the carriage, -some with the head thrown back a little as if to repose, others with -bowed forehead, but all were silent, with their white-gloved hands lost -in the large sleeves of their cloaks or hidden beneath the carriage -rug; the men had that air of weariness and boredom that ages the -physiognomy of the youngest. All were weary through having once again -chattered vainly of vain things, through having flirted with trite and -cold words, with accustomed and banal actions; they were tired of all -this, but without wishing to confess it and attributing their weariness -to the open air, in which they were unaccustomed to live for so many -hours. They were ready, when they had passed along the road now beaten -by the strong, gelid evening wind, and had reached the warmth of their -hotels, amidst the shining lights, to resume the same conversations, -and begin again the same flirtations, till the night was advanced. - -Now all were silent and bored: the women were almost pallid beneath -their veils, the tints of which were becoming uniform in the rapidly -increasing dusk. - -The men, no longer gracious, were glad to be silent, being desirous of -arriving quickly at their hotels. Thus they passed at a brisk trot, -and the three wayfarers had repeatedly to avoid them. Suddenly the -carriage of Madame Lawrence, that year's beauty, passed, followed by -four or five others. She had placed over her white dress a large, round -cloak without sleeves, of a very dark red cloth, and to be original she -had taken off the immense hat covered with a large green veil, and had -drawn over her head the dark red hood trimmed with old silver lace. -From the back of this hood appeared her calm and thoughtful beauty, -the large eyes, clear and penetrating, gleamed, and the blond tresses, -braided round the head in Florentine fashion, caused her in that red -cloak, so like a soldier's tunic of olden times, and beneath that -hood, to look like the woman whom the Italian poet loved. Miss Temple -followed her with a long stare and then glanced at Lucio Sabini. - -"Do you like Madame Lawrence?" asked Miss Ford. - -"She is beautiful; but I don't like her," he replied. - -"Why?" asked Miss Temple. - -"I prefer the violets," replied Lucio, with a smile. - -"Violets, Signor?" again questioned the girl. - -"The modest beauties, Miss Temple. The beauties who hide themselves." - -"Ah," she replied, without further remark. - -They had almost reached the "Kulm," when a group of four men came -towards them on foot. They emerge from a path that tortuously descends -and re-climbs a small valley towards the end of the village. They were -Don Giovanni Vergas, an Italian gentleman of a great Southern family, -seventy years of age, with a still lively physiognomy, in spite of a -fine, correctly cut white beard; Monsieur Jean Morel, a Frenchman, -a Parisian, an old man of eighty, slender of figure, shrivelled and -upright, with a clean-shaven face, furrowed with a thousand wrinkles, -but on which physical strength was still to be read; Herr Otto von -Raabe, a German from Berlin, a man of forty, tall, bony, and imposing, -with a brown and haggard face, a little black, bristling beard, -streaked with white, and two blue eyes, blue as blue-bottle flowers -and the sky, and finally Massimo Granata, a Southern Italian, with a -thin, yellowish face that could never have known youth, with a body -all twisted with the rickets. He was already advanced in years, and -invalided by a long, slow, incurable disease; his glance scintillated -with goodness and intelligence, and a dreamy expression was in all his -countenance. - -The well-cut boots of Don Giovanni Vergas and the Parisian, Jean Morel, -were covered with dust, as also were the big stout boots of Otto von -Raabe and Massimo Granata. All four, in costume and bearing, had the -appearance of having walked far. The German carried a large bundle of -Alpine flowers, formed of wild geraniums, fine and rosy, bluebells long -of stalk, and tall green grasses streaked with white, and his face -every now and then was bent over the mountain flowers. Massimo Granata -pressed to his bosom a bunch of gentians, some dark, some light, of a -dark and pale violet, and of a violet-blue. The meeting with the four -was for a moment only: their words were rapid and joyous. - -"Where have you been?" asked Lucio Sabini. - -"On high, on high," exclaimed Jean Morel vivaciously. - -"To the Alp Nova," replied Don Giovanni Vergas, with a smile. - -"Four hours climbing and descending," continued Otto von Raabe, with a -very German guttural accent, and a kind smile on his large mouth. - -"And we have all these beautiful flowers, Sabini, these beautiful -gentians," concluded Massimo Granata, as if in a dream. - -They greeted each other and vanished. Lucio followed them for a moment -with his eyes. - -"They do not come from a restaurant," he murmured, as if to himself. - -"What do you mean, Signor?" asked Miss Temple, looking at him with her -beautiful eyes that questioned so ingenuously. - -"These friends of mine, Miss Temple, have all of them been far on high -to-day, all of them, even the oldest and the invalid." - -He spoke as in a dream, in the evening that had already fallen. - -"And they gathered those blue and violet flowers," added Miss Temple, -thoughtfully and dreamily. - -There was a little silence. - -"The mountain flowers are so beautiful," continued the English girl; -"and the mountains themselves are so near to heaven." - -"Would you like to climb up there, Miss Temple?" - -"Yes, Signor; even where there are no flowers, even where there are -only rocks and eternal snows," she added mysteriously, with lowered -eyes. - -That white, cold, pure vision remained in her beautiful eyes when she -took leave of Lucio Sabini and disappeared with her friend into the -hall of the Hôtel Kulm. Alone, in the dark evening, he was surrounded -by the cold wind, and all his soul was invaded by an unknown, -inexplicable, and mortal sadness. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -"May I come in, mamma?" asked the fresh, sonorous voice of Mabel Clarke -at the closed door. - -"Come in, dearie," replied the soft and expressionless voice of her -mother from within. - -Mabel entered and with her eyes sought her mother in the spacious room. - -"I am here, dearie," murmured her mother, even more softly. Annie -Clarke lay stretched upon a large sofa that filled up a whole corner -of the room; her head, which had been carefully dressed and the hair -passed discreetly through henna, was leaning in a tired way on a -pillow of oriental stuff covered with quaint, old lace. A pure white -bear-skin, stretched over her knees, covered the edge of the sofa and -fell on the ground like a soft white carpet. Around Annie Clarke, on -the great bear-skin, on a table beside her, on little tables placed -within her reach, were a hundred different objects; a writing-case with -everything necessary for writing, a row of flasks and little bottles -for salts, scents, and medicines; bundles of unopened reviews, bundles -of uncut books, manicure-case, silver and gold boxes of all dimensions -for cipria, pastes and pins; paper-knives, another _nécessaire_ for -opening letters, a large glass filled with a milky drink, wherein was -immersed a golden spoon, and close to her right hand was a silver-gilt -pear studded with turquoises--the electric bell. But Annie Clarke -performed none of these operations, since Mrs. Broughton or Fanny, the -trusted maid, before leaving her had gathered around her whatever -might be useful to her. There was Annie Clarke, impassive, tranquil; -not sad, not happy, perhaps not even thoughtful. On the third finger -of her right hand shone an enormous diamond, a most rare jewel; but -she wore no other jewels. With a smile Mabel Clarke drew near her -mother and bent her head over her. Annie gave a fleeting kiss to her -daughter's flowing, rebellious locks, and then offered a smooth and -expressionless cheek to be kissed. - -"How are you, mammy?" - -"I am cold, dearie." - -"Cold?" - -"Very cold." - -Mabel threw a glance at the broad window that almost cut off one of -the walls of that room in the "Palace," and which looked out over the -lake. In the peculiar frame of light wood which the opened shutters -formed and that really seemed like the frame of a vast picture, -behind the shining windows, right opposite there was to be seen, but -extraordinarily near, a huge mass of the deepest green, the dense wood -of Acla Silva, which no house or cottage disturbs. Over the virgin wood -a fringe of brightest, almost shimmering blue--the sky; beneath the -wood a fringe of steel-blue, motionless and scintillating--the lake. -And everything was enveloped and penetrated by the purest light. - -"The weather is so beautiful," added Mabel in a harmonious voice. "You -are cold because you do not go out." - -"I am not a _sport_ like you, Mabel. You know that," exclaimed Annie, -shaking her head. - -"_Ah, que j'adore ce pays!_" exclaimed the beautiful girl suddenly in -French, with a strong American accent; and the exclamation bubbled -forth like a cry of joy, as she smiled delightfully. - -"You are right," murmured her mother tranquilly. - -Full of joy, Mabel Clarke's large grey eyes, the large enchanting eyes -of an almost infantile grey, rested in rapture upon the bright window, -where the landscape appeared strangely circumscribed, formed by the -immaculate and intense green of the wood, the pureness of the sky, -and motionless waters, while the wood, sky, and lake were wrapped in -light. Mabel's tall and comely figure and every line and feature of the -graceful face breathed youth, serenity, and joy of living. Instead of -one of her usual tailor-made dresses, from the round skirts of which -were always to be seen the long, well-booted feet, the jacket a little -long and angular, allowing one to guess at the flexible lines of her -figure, she wore a dress of white cambric, of French style, all fringed -and inserted with lace, a soft, rather long dress, with a sash of ivory -silk. On her head, instead of one of those round hats with straight -brim and a feather like a dagger which completes the Anglo-American -tailor-made dress, she wore a large coif hat, trimmed with white -cambric, the coif of Charlotte Corday, tied with a sky-blue ribbon, -with a large bow at the side. Her parasol and shoes were white, as were -her gloves and purse. - -"You look very nice, Mabel," said her mother, after gazing and smiling -an instant at her dear daughter's figure in the white dress. - -"_Pour le bon Dieu, chère maman_," exclaimed the daughter, smiling, and -showing her white teeth. - -"Are you going to collect in church this morning, dearie? Did you -accept, then?" - -"Oh, mother! How can one say no to the Archduchess? She takes such an -interest in the Catholic church." - -"So do we, Mabel; in fact in all Catholic churches. And we are very -interested in the Pope!" Annie added with some vivacity. "Did you tell -the Archduchess that?" - -"Of course I told her." - -"Is the Archduchess Vittoria to collect with you?" - -"Why, yes!" - -"Try to collect more money than she does, Mabel." - -"I will try to. Won't you give me something, too, in church?" - -"I am not going, dearie. I am tired and cold. I will give it you now -and you shall place the money in your plate." - -Feeling on the large sofa Annie Clarke found her cheque-book, and drew -out her gold pen. Mechanically, on her knees, she wrote a figure on a -cheque, almost without looking, signed it, detached the leaf lightly, -and, after blotting it, gave it to her daughter. - -"Four hundred dollars, Mabel. But there are few rich Catholics -here. All the rich people are Jews," murmured Annie Clarke, with a -disparaging sneer. "Shall you collect alone?" - -"Oh, no; each of us has a companion." - -"Who accompanies the Archduchess Vittoria?" - -"Comte de Roy, the little Count." - -"And you? Don Vittorio Lante, I suppose, my dear?" - -"Naturally," replied the girl frankly. - -"You are very much in love with him, it seems to me, Mabel." - -"Very much." - -"He is a nice young man," said Annie Clarke, in a low voice; "I believe -he has no fortune." - -"I believe so, too, mammy." - -"Have you already obtained information about that?" - -"No, mammy, I have had no information about it," said the girl -discreetly, "but I suppose it." - -They spoke quietly, looking each other in the eyes, without a shadow of -hesitation in voice or words. - -"Are you already engaged to him, Mabel?" Annie Clarke asked, after a -minute's silence. - -The bright face, where so much youthful beauty smiled, became, as it -were, veiled by a very light cloud, which disappeared at once. - -"Not yet," the girl replied. - -"However, you could tie yourself?" asked the mother. - -"Perhaps I could," replied the girl thoughtfully. - -"Don't do it without warning me, Mabel, my dear." - -"Of course I will not do so without warning you," said the daughter. - -Again the rosy face beneath the large white coif, beneath the -rebellious chestnut hair, bent to kiss the maternal cheek. Annie -Clarke contented herself with giving a little tap of the hand on her -daughter's shoulder, as an apology for a caress, and followed her with -her eyes as she withdrew. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -In the Catholic church of St. Moritz Bad the first Mass on a Sunday is -said at six. The bell of the rather lofty tower sounded the call to -the faithful once only, and feebly, as if a discreet hand measured the -sound at that early morning hour. The valley was full of a fleeting -white mist that concealed the mountains far and near, that billowed -over the large, deserted meadows near the church, rendering their grass -soft with water and glistening with flowers; it billowed amidst the -large hotels, closed and silent, and in the deserted and silent streets -of the Bad. The sun, which much later would cause the white morning -mist of the Engadine to vanish, had not yet emerged from behind the -quaint Piz Languard. The cold was keen and the atmosphere of an equal -shade, greyish white and very soft. - -Slowly, but continuously, the church filled from top to bottom, in -its great central nave and two side aisles, which are really two long -and straight corridors, with a taciturn, cautious, and respectful -congregation of the faithful. They were the Engadine villagers and -woodmen, men and women in their Sunday clothes, all of which were dark, -in heavy grey cloth, maroon, and deep blue: the women with head hidden -in a dark kerchief, faces with an opaque colouring, warmed with red, -crowned with chestnut hair with streaks of lightish red, eyes of a -milky blue, very pale and without gleam. There were labourers from all -the railway, street, and house works which they were constructing in -the neighbourhood, in the near and far distance. There were people of -other districts and climes, who every Sunday, even in winter, over snow -and ice, walked mile upon mile to come and hear Mass, and who even now, -in summer, had put up with great inconvenience to reach St. Moritz Bad -at six in the morning, afterwards to depart again immediately. There -were Lombards, Venetians, Romagnians, and Calabrians; workmen in their -clean clothes and large boots who bowed to the altar with the usual act -of homage of their own districts and far-off villages, and who went to -seat themselves by the villagers in profound silence, neither greeting -nor speaking, and like the countrymen and woodmen on the benches in -front, bending their heads at once to pray. - -There were men and women of the _bourgeoisie_, assistants at the -bazaars, who had not yet opened their shops, saleswomen at the -curiosity shops, chambermaids from the hotels, little players in the -orchestra, washerwomen, starchers, seamstresses, domestic servants of -employers who would still sleep deeply for two or three hours; all -workers, in fact, who had risen so early to be able to assist at the -Mass, since later, at the second Mass at eight, the work would already -have begun in its briskness and intensity; while at eleven, the hour of -High Mass, none of them would have an instant more of liberty. Even all -these toilers of the luxury, pleasure, and intoxication of life, these -humble, unknown workers were there in cast-off clothes, with faces -still pale from interrupted sleep, with the tired air of those who -are deprived of rest; but each of them stood at his place in church, -without troubling about his neighbour, seized by the intimate need of -that moment of recollection and liberty of spirit. - -The Mass of the country people, workers, and servants proceeded in -perfect simplicity and great rapidity. It was said by one of the three -priests who compose the summer Mission of St. Moritz Bad, which comes -from Coire, sent by the Bishop every year in the month of May to remain -there till the end of September. He was the least known of the three -priests, since the chief one reserved for himself the eleven o'clock -Mass, in which he could speak to the varied cosmopolitan society. -Before the Gospel the organ played ponderously, but only for a brief -space, and there was no singing. Interrupting the Mass as usual, the -celebrant climbed the pulpit very hurriedly, and after an instant of -silent prayer, he explained that Sunday's Gospel, in which he spoke of -the parable of the good servant, that is of time that one must place to -good use for the welfare of the Christian soul, and of which the Lord -later would demand strict account. - -In truth, villagers, workmen, servants, and workers of every class -listened with immense attention, without almost moving an eyebrow, to -the severe words, too severely commented upon, about the _use of time_; -and here and there on many faces there were traces of old and daily -fatigues, traces of old and daily privations, there seemed to be an -anxiety and a fear of not having worked enough, of not having suffered -enough. Here and there some faces appeared to be inundated with -sadness, so that when the priest finished the commentary on the day's -Gospel with a hasty benediction, they were bowed full of compunction -on the benches. Lower down some women, in the shade, hid their faces -in their hands to pray, and showed only their bent shoulders in -their modest black wove dresses. When the first tinkling of the bell -announced that the moving mystery of the Host was beginning, there -was a great movement in the church. The seats and benches were moved, -for there was not a single one of these villagers, work people, and -servants who did not bow the knee before the mystic majesty of that -which was about to happen. And when the triple tinkling of the bell -and the sound of the organ announced that the mystery was at its -culmination of beatitude, there were nothing but prostrate bodies and -prone heads in the Catholic church of St. Moritz Bad. - -But at the end of the Gospel, explained from the pulpit, the celebrant -had added a few words that they should give alms to the church. The -faithful were reminded that many years ago there was not a shadow of -a Catholic church in the valley, and that to get a Mass they had been -forced to make an even more fatiguing and severe walk in winter and -summer; that the Catholic church had been built, that it had so many -debts that the good children ought to give something to alleviate -these obligations. During the second Gospel, a workman rose from his -place, crossed himself before approaching the altar, and taking a -bronze plate, began to make the collection, person by person. Before -offering the plate he searched in his pocket and gave his offering, -an Italian coin of twenty centesimi--a nickel. With lowered eyes he -quietly offered the plate to the other workers, peasants, servants, -chambermaids, and domestics. Each gave with lowered eyes five or ten -centimes in Italian, French, or Swiss money. Each gave not more than -a soldo or two, but soon the plate was full of this heavy money, come -from all those poor pockets of poor men and women who felt the benefit -of having a church every Sunday, to pray and tell God how great was -their sorrow; so they wished to give their obol to their church. - -The workman who was collecting, a Calabrian with a huge silver -watch-chain, and a waistcoat of maroon velvet, explored even the two -side corridors, in the most obscure corners, and tenaciously asked of -each. Then after a profound genuflexion to the altar he went to the -sacristy to deposit the collection of all the poor people. The Mass -ended without other music than the two pieces which had accompanied -the first Gospel and the Elevation. After a moment of hesitation, -crossing themselves broadly towards the altar, the people began to -leave the church, still in silence, and some before leaving genuflected -again. They formed no groups and clusters to chatter in front of the -church, by the swift river which gaily runs to precipitate itself -into the lake. Everybody left by the central path along the Inn, the -peasants and work people with slow, equal, heavy step; the servants, -chambermaids, toilers of the hotels, _cafés_, and restaurants with -a lighter and more rapid step. The white, dense Engadine mist had -in the meantime become less dense and was brightened by a light of -interior gold. The sun gradually appeared behind Piz Languard, and all -the atmosphere grew lighter and still more soft. The air was keenly -cold, the soft meadows covered with flowers which led to the Bad were -deserted, the shops and the windows and balconies of the hotels were -closed; and once more the roads were deserted when the peasants and -workers and servants from every part had vanished. - - * * * * * - -The bell for High Mass, the eleven o'clock Mass, in the Catholic -church at St. Moritz Bad rings three times to warn the faithful, at -half-past ten, at a quarter to eleven, and at eleven. It is a proud and -resounding peal that fills the fine Engadine air with its harmonies, -now heavy, now sharp. The sonorous summons spreads itself afar in -every part, to the highest villas, and to the most remote and solitary -houses where anyone may be, so that he may turn his steps and hurry to -church. At the first peal as yet no one appears along the level white -paths amidst the vast green meadows, where the church rises which, -all rude with its unpainted walls, still has a deserted and empty -appearance, and which is situated in such a way that its foundations -seem to be immersed in the still waters of the lake, where the swift -and blue little Inn beats on one side as it rushes to precipitate -itself into the lake. The belfry, so imposing that it almost overwhelms -the church, trembles in vain from a peal that invokes the presence of -the faithful. But at the second call slowly from every part, beneath a -sun that makes the whole countryside irresistibly bright and gay, pass -men, women, and children who are descending towards the church which, -through an optical illusion, almost appears to be suspended above the -clear waters of the lake. Continually from every part people arrive, -now following the noisy course of the merry little Inn, now crossing -it by the bridge, now arriving by the broad white ribbon, the road -from the station and from St. Moritz Dorf to St. Moritz Bad. Now from -the narrow white byways which descend abruptly amidst the verdure from -the Dorf to the Bad, people keep arriving and group themselves in the -small square before the church, and beneath the narrow portico with its -slender little pillars, which seem to have been squashed out of the -roof, waiting, chatting, and laughing--men, women, and children. All -the women's dresses are for the most part brightly coloured or white, -in cambric or fine cloth; also the children are dressed in white, and -beneath their large hats their long hair appears on their shoulders in -ringlets or waves. Some of the men are dressed fashionably, others with -great simplicity. The crowd that is gradually formed outside and within -the church, exquisitely dressed and adorned as if for the smartest -society gathering, meets and greets, chatters and smiles, while but -a single word circulates above the conversation, sometimes softly, -sometimes aloud--respectfully, discreetly, curiously. - -The Archduchess! The Archduchess! The Archduchess! - -The Archduchess Maria Annunziata of Austria entered the church at the -first stroke of the second summons, and crossed it completely with -her rather rigid step. She was very tall and thin in her black dress, -beneath a black hat which rested upon the thick white frame of her -beautiful hair, while a very fine black veil scarcely threw a shadow on -the face pale as ivory, on the black eyes, of a black as dense as coal, -and the mouth pale as the pink of a withered rose. Maria Annunziata, -Archduchess of Austria, quickly finds her place, because near the -High Altar, more advanced than any other seat, are two arm-chairs of -carved wood and two dark praying-stools, also of worked wood. The pious -Austrian of the House of Hapsburg at once knelt down and began to pray. -Her niece, a young girl of fifteen, the Archduchess Maria Vittoria, -followed her into church step for step: already tall and slim, the -young girl had the serene and proud face of the ladies of the Royal -House. Maria Vittoria is very pale of countenance, and a large tress -of very black hair descends upon her shoulders, which is tied with -a bow of white ribbon. Her eyes are very black, without gleam, and -proud; her eyelids are often lowered, and with her long eyelashes they -throw a shadow on her neck; her fresh mouth has a prominent lower lip -that augments the pride of the face. The handsome, faded aunt and the -beautiful, quiet, and proud niece are very like each other. - -Maria Vittoria is the only child by the first marriage of the Archduke -Ludwig Salvator and the Archduchess Maria Immacolata, who had died -tragically six years previously, from a fall from her horse, leaving -the child of nine and a husband who did not weep for her, seeing that -he had been separated from her and was already living with a friend -of hers, the Countess Margaret von Wollemberg, who, for that matter, -he had at once married morganatically, renouncing every eventual right -to the Austrian throne, renouncing the Court, and even renouncing the -right to see his daughter, Maria Vittoria. - -Aunt and niece resemble each other. No one knows or remembers the old -drama that saddened the youth of Maria Annunziata, and vowed her to -celibacy and placed on her breast, on her black dress, the cross of an -honorary abbess of a convent of Hungarian ladies. In spite of her deep -religious piety, perhaps she still suffers; but on her face there is -no trace of sorrow; there rests there composure and almost serenity. -However, all know the atrocious doubt that fluctuates over the life of -Maria Vittoria, to wit, that her mother did not die from an accident, -but was killed, and all know of the father's desertion, that left her -under the protection of her uncles and her aunt, like the most wretched -among orphans of the people. But in Maria Vittoria's silence there is -an immense pride, even when she kneels, as she bows her head beneath -its rich black tresses. - -Behind them the Catholic church is almost full, and by eleven o'clock -it is fuller than it has ever been. For the past week among the -Catholic ladies of Italy, France, and Austria a rumour has said that -the Archduchess Maria Annunziata would attend High Mass at the Catholic -church of St. Moritz Bad instead of hearing Mass by her chaplain at -her Villa Silvana, as usual on Sundays, because she was interested -in the church and wished people to come and make a large collection -in aid of its necessities; that she had permitted her niece, the -Archduchess Maria Vittoria, to make the collection, and that even she -had condescended to beg Miss Mabel Clarke, the beautiful and rich -American girl--the girl of twenty, thirty, fifty millions dowry, the -girl at whom all pointed, whom all wished to know, to whom each one -was anxious to be presented, and whom a hundred dowry-hunters sought in -vain to conquer--to make the collection on that day with her niece--a -Royal Princess, the niece and cousin of a King. Maria Vittoria of -Austria and Mabel Clarke, the daughter of one of the many millionaires -of Fifth Avenue, were to collect together! The church was fuller than -ever it had been. At the offertory Lidia Smolenska, a Pole with a -magnificent voice, was to sing, who never sang in public, and who had -consented to do so in church through generosity of mind, although she -was of a schismatic religion. Afterwards Comte André de Beauregard -was to sing, a Frenchman of a great family, absolutely poor, with a -treasure in his throat, who, however, dared not go on the stage, out of -regard for his ancestors. - -So the Catholic church of St. Moritz Bad, where every Sunday the ranks -of the faithful are very thin at High Mass, when the two or three -English Protestant churches are at the same time full to overflowing -for Divine Service, when the Lutheran and Calvinist churches are -crowded with Germans and Swiss psalmodising, when in the hotels, -villas, and houses every Sunday at the same hour there remains the -great Engadine crowd, to wit the great mass of Jews, this poor little -Catholic church of St. Moritz Bad, which is always half empty--so few -were the Catholics in the valley and so few the observing Catholics--on -this Sunday is most full. - -French women of the old style have descended from the Dorf and come -from the Bad, drawn by the summons of the Archduchess of Austria: the -septuagenarian Duchesse d'Armaillé, whose coquetry it is to affect old -age, while her ancient fascination renews itself, as in a pleasant -twilight of grace; the Duchesse di Langeais, who is a perfect prodigy -of preservation as to beauty and figure at her uncertain age between -forty and forty-five, laced in a dress that models her like a statue, -and moreover is still flexible; la Comtesse de la Ferté Guyon, very -pale, blond, bloodless, as if discreet shadows had spread over her -person and attenuated her voice; but she was still shut up in her -incurable melancholy as in a tower of ivory; the Marquise di Fleury, -septuagenarian, implacably septuagenarian, beneath her yellow hair-dye, -beneath the bistre of her expressionless eyes, beneath the rouge of -her feeble cheeks and her stained lips, dressed outrageously in white, -with a hat of flowers and no veil; and _la grande bourgeoise_, Madame -Lesnay, whose talent, knowledge of life, and fortune had settled her -sons and daughter in marriage with the noblest houses of France, -and the other _grande bourgeoise_, Madame Soffre, who had given two -millions to her daughter so that she could marry the most eminent young -French politician, to make of this daughter a future President's wife -of the Republic. Many French girls had come there through a deep sense -of curiosity and sadness to assist at the triumph of the American girl, -one of those many girls who nowadays take away the lovers and husbands -from the daughters of French aristocratic society. - -From Dorf and Bad the Italian women had come to church, those who -most frequent every Sunday the two Catholic churches; also those have -come who have heard the Mass at eight, as they wish to please the -Archduchess: Lombard Marchionesses, tall, thin, with long necks, long -and expressive faces, of a type a little equine, but with inborn lordly -air, with toilettes rather severe, or absolutely eccentric; magnificent -Roman Duchesses, with delicate faces like finely cut medals, large, -proud eyes, flowing tresses, and of noble bearing; Princesses of -the Two Sicilies, Naples and Palermo, some of rare and penetrating -oriental beauty, with languishing and rather ardent eyes. All these -Italian ladies are accompanied by their husbands, especially preceded -or followed by sons and daughters, young men or maidens, or children, -boys and girls, three, four, or five, some as beautiful as the sun, -forming admirable groups of freshness, laughter, and grace. These -Italian women among their children have a protecting, maternal air -which if it does not wholly destroy their womanly fascination, at least -attenuates or straitens and transforms it: while the French women also -in church, even when praying or bowing their white foreheads on their -hands, preserve all their womanly fascination. There is an enchanting -smile on the mouths of the French women, young, middle-aged, and old, -that mingles even with the light movement of the lips as they pray, as -if they wish to conquer _le bon Dieu_--as they always succeed in doing! - -All the great Austrian ladies are here at the command of the -Archduchess: the vivacious Hungarian, the Countess of Durckheim, -celebrated for the extravagance of her life, but ever admired and -loved in spite of it all; the Prinzessin von Sudenhorst, the great -ambassadress, who had done so much for Austria and her husband, and who -afterwards destroyed his fortune by publishing his memoirs, full of -scandalous revelations and a spirit of cruelty against everyone; the -most beautiful woman in Vienna, Frau Lehman, who was very rich since -she was the wife of the most powerful brewer; the most beautiful girl -in Vienna, Fräulein Sophie Zeller. Both maid and matron were very fair -and rosy, with smiling eyes and large mouths, but slightly awkward in -features and in dress, pretentious under an air of simplicity, though -still quite pleasing. Beneath the shadow of the Archduchess was her -great conquest, the young Baroness de Sluka, kneeling and praying, who -a year ago was only a distinguished Jewess, Aline Kahn, but who by -means of the Archduchess had been converted with great _éclat_: she -had supported her at her baptism, and had also given her the title -of Baroness, while the neophyte had given a million to the Convent -of the Annunciation, where she was baptised. On her knees, at the -Archduchess's shoulder, the beautiful Baronin humbly bows her head and -prays with exaggerated ardour, reading from a rich missal, covered with -antique silver, with a book-marker of red ribbon and pious gold medals. - -The American Catholic ladies are in a large group, almost all standing. -The _very Catholic_ are all more or less in short, tailor-made -dresses with hats garnished with straight feathers. Nearly all are -_misses_ captained by Mabel Clarke's two dearest friends, who have -come specially on horseback from Sils Maria to assist at the triumph -of _darling Mabel_. The two horses of the West girls are in a corner -of the church square, held by a groom who has tethered his horse to a -paling. - -The Mass begins. - -"Two hundred millions dowry!" exclaims in a low voice, sighing vainly, -the Vicomte de Lynen, a Belgian, after looking at the group, an -unfortunate, but withal obstinate hunter after a dowry. - -Around him, at the back of the church, there are other seekers after -dowries, as if attracted together by a secret common desire. Come -from Brussels, Paris, Florence, and everywhere, some spurred by a -real need of readjusting their lives, others only to increase their -luxury and their pleasures. Lynen is, as it were, their leader, and -all of them, more or less young, some of them of grand name, all very -fashionable, assume a sceptical air, that covers well their hidden -interest. And in mountain clothes of great variety, from that of jacket -and knickerbockers to white tennis flannels, from dark and subdued -suits to the peculiar velvet of the _chasseur_, nearly all preserve the -ingenuous and disinterested attitude of him who thinks only of enjoying -life. Other men are scattered here and there, come at the order of a -lady whom they strive to obey, come to seek one who is escaping them, -or come through duty and curiosity; of every nation and condition, -come as to a curious spectacle, as to a worldly invitation, to see the -singular partnership of the Archduchess Maria Vittoria collecting with -Mabel Clarke, to hear the two singers who so seldom allow themselves -to be heard, the Smolenska, who is, in fact, a political exile, and -who was consenting, schismatic as she was, to sing for the Roman -Catholic church, and André de Beauregard--André whom the _impresarii_ -of New York were offering fantastic sums to make of him a rival to -Caruso--while he was contemplating with melancholy the portrait of his -ancestor slain at Malplaquet, or of another ancestor who was covered -with glory at Fontenoy against the English. Nearly all the men are -standing: there are no more seats. The caretaker of seats had his plate -filled to overflowing with coins, such as he has never seen before. -Standing, the men look around and turn every now and then, striving to -discern who is entering and to distinguish which ladies are immersed -in the gloom of the two narrow side aisles, and the mystery of certain -veils which are too close. - -"Ah, Madame Lawrence is not here! Then is it true that she is a Jewess, -though she won't confess it?" - -"No, no, she hurt her foot playing golf yesterday." - -"But is she a Jewess?" - -The Mass begins. - -Mabel Clarke had entered a minute previously, dressed completely in -white, her fresh, youthful face suffused with blushes beneath the -white frame of her hat trimmed with cambric, which the dense mass of -her hair raised and pressed back a little; she carried a soft bunch of -white lilies-of-the-valley in one hand. Her mother is not with her, nor -is the faithful shadow of Mrs. Broughton. She is accompanied by Don -Vittorio Lante della Scala, who follows her step for step. Dressed in a -dark blue suit, almost black, with the single bright and soft note of -a pale yellow tie, in his sober smartness the young Italian aristocrat -has a virile fascination together with delicacy and grace. As the two -advance silently, but calmly and easily, their passage forward raises a -murmur that creeps gradually through all the congregation. - -Mabel Clarke, who is almost always used to hearing these whisperings -on her passage, does not turn and has the appearance of not noticing -them. Don Vittorio Lante seems to neither hear nor see, being intent on -every action of the American girl he is accompanying. Mabel greets her -American friends with a slight wave of the hand and a delightful smile, -and reaching the top of the church looks for a place behind the two -Archduchesses. - -With difficulty she obtains a seat, and kneels for a moment. Vittorio -Lante places himself most faithfully beside her, and they are shoulder -to shoulder. While the priest at the altar makes the first genuflexion -and whispers the first prayers, Mabel and Vittorio, bowing their heads -to one another, carry on a conversation in a slight whisper. - -All the crowd in the church is inattentive and distracted. Scarcely -anyone follows the movements and acts of the priest at the altar. Many -men and women raise themselves a little in their seats to watch the -erect, proud, silent heads of the two Archduchesses. Others, the men -especially, keep pointing at Mabel Clarke, who, smiling, distrait, and -detached, turns her large grey eyes to those of Vittorio Lante, while -he, with eyes fixed on her, distracted, seized, conquered, tells her -things very softly, without ceasing to look and smile at her. - -From the sides of the church men and women stretch towards the organ, -which is at the back, to find out if Lidia Smolenska, the great singer, -is there. A pale and serious face is to be seen up above, a very light -coiffure beneath a feathered hat, which at once disappears, hidden by -the balustrade of the organ. Mechanically people rise to their feet -when the priest opens the Gospel. Some cross themselves through old -custom, others in imitation; very few make the three signs of the -cross, on the forehead, lips, and heart, as the rite directs; vice -versa, as they are standing people end by turning to look around them, -and almost to form groups. - -But the priest has left the altar, and after a minute he reappears in -the pulpit to explain the day's Gospel. All sit down more comfortably: -they turn towards the pulpit and gradually become silent. In a gently -pronounced French, with a soft accent, stretching out in pleasant -circumlocutions, the parable of the day's Gospel is expounded, that -of the master who asks an account from his servants of the way in -which they have employed their time. With florid gestures the priest -questions the crowd and does not wait for a reply; he admonishes them, -but tenderly, on the use of time, of that which has been done well -and ill in ten years, in a year, in a day, in an hour. And he does it -all in his insinuating and caressing French, so as not to oppress or -frighten those who are listening to him, who have come from every part -of the world, all of whom are very rich, or at least seem rich, all of -whom are of high birth and origin, or at least bear great names, all -these ladies who, as he sees and knows, cling to life--to a true or -false youth, simple or artificial. Suddenly the priest heals with the -balm of hope, in soft and rolling French, a certain light spiritual -agitation that had risen in the souls of the crowd, at the doubt that -they had badly used their time in enjoyment, vice, corruption, and -cruelty. But what does it matter, for here is a priest to promise -them divine mercy in a French full of pardon and indulgence? So the -congregation, which perhaps has not been agitated at all, and has -never considered that it has sacrificed to the senses, to vice, and -perdition, hears the tenderest absolution falling on its shoulders -in the name of divine clemency; and it finds this unasked-for pardon -and clemency suddenly coming in plenitude in the name of God. But the -priest has not finished. In even more mellifluous French, full of -_hélas_ and sighs, he begs alms for the poor, very poor, church of St. -Moritz Bad, which for years has been crushed by its building debt. The -church has cost too much because of its campanile, which is a monument, -and through want of money its interior is undecorated and mean; so the -priest turns humbly, sighing and lamenting, _à ses très chers frères, -à ses chères sœurs_, that the collection may give a substantial sum to -the poor church of St. Moritz Bad. Then he disappears from the pulpit. - -The great moment has arrived: everybody in church rises, turns, and -cranes to watch. The couple who are to collect are about to begin their -duties. - -The Archduchess Maria Vittoria was the first to rise, followed by a -beardless youth of eighteen, the Comte de Roy, a Frenchman, the son of -an Austrian Princess, hence connected, if remotely, with the House of -Austria. Maria Vittoria kneels a moment before the High Altar, then she -takes from the hands of the Comte de Roy a silver plate. She advances -to her aunt, the Archduchess Maria Annunziata, and makes her a profound -curtsey, a Court curtsey, and stoops to kiss the long, skinny, white -hand which places in the plate a large gold coin, a hundred lire piece. -Followed by the Comte de Roy, the fifteen-year-old girl, tall and slim, -rather too tall and thin perhaps, like her great-aunt, enters among -the congregation to the right of the High Altar. Maria Vittoria does -not smile, her proud mouth with the thick lower lip is closed tightly, -her very thick opaque eyes scarcely fix themselves for a moment upon -the person from whom she is asking alms. Coins of silver and gold fall -with a tinkle into the plate; she scarcely bows her head in thanks, and -passes on, without looking at or turning to her cavalier who follows -her. Curiosity about her is very soon exhausted; the congregation -examines her first with respect, then with indifference, and in some -she awakes antipathy by her stiffness and sovereign pride. Quietly she -crosses the church imprisoned in her thoughts and feelings. Her plate -is covered with gold and silver coins, covered but not overflowing. She -pays no heed to what is given her; in fact, she moves and mingles with -the congregation, without scarcely anyone bothering further about her. - -Mabel Clarke also salutes the altar, but with a short, slight bow; -Don Vittorio Lante follows her and offers her another silver plate. -The American girl approaches the Archduchess Maria Annunziata, and -instead of the deep Court curtsey she makes her an elegant bow, the -bow of the _Lancers_, throwing her a lively glance and gracious smile. -The Archduchess moulds a pallid smile on her lips, and places another -big gold coin in the plate, the same alms that she had given to her -niece--one hundred francs in gold. - -"_Merci, Altesse_," exclaims Mabel Clarke, with a strong American -accent. - -She stops a moment, opens her white leather purse, spreads upon the -plate, close to the gold coin of her Imperial and Royal Highness, the -cheque for four hundred dollars--two thousand francs--which her mother, -Annie Clarke, gave her. The Archduchess glances for a moment, a rush of -blood flushes the pale, ivory-like face, then with an act of Christian -humility she bows her head and prays. - -Mabel Clarke's action has been seen by the first row of people near the -altar, the action and the slip of white paper thrown into the plate -has been seen and commented on. Like a long shiver it is communicated -from row to row right to the back of the church. All murmur and -whisper that there is a Clarke cheque in the plate, "Three hundred, -five hundred lire, no, a thousand; scarcely a hundred and fifty, five -hundred." And the crowd sways backwards and forwards, forgetful that -already at the altar the first bell is ringing for the beginning of -the sacrifice of the Host. Mabel Clarke in her white dress penetrates -the congregation to the right of the High Altar, holding her plate a -little raised to show it better. Her large grey eyes sparkle beneath -the subtle arch of their chestnut eyebrows; the beautiful florid mouth -over the white teeth smiles. She looks the person well in the face of -whom she begs, as she smilingly repeats in French, "_pour notre chère -église, Madame ... pour notre chère église, Monsieur...._" Neither -woman nor man resists the curiosity of detaining near them for a moment -the daughter of the man six hundred times a millionaire, Mabel Clarke, -the bride to be with twenty, thirty, fifty millions; and immediately -after the curiosity an irresistible sympathy rises for the beautiful -creature, beautiful with a new beauty, a new florescence, a new blood, -of a new grace caused by new features, and of a charm caused by a new -fascination. - -All, men and women, from curiosity, sympathy, or vanity, as they see -the Clarke cheque on which the coins are piling, give more than they -wish to give; and she, smiling and bowing the white forehead, where -the rebellious wave of hair is falling, thanks them with her marked -American accent: "_Oh, merci, Madame, mille fois ... merci, Monsieur, -bien merci._" She smiles and passes by, Don Vittorio Lante follows -almost close beside her. He is a little pale and disturbed; perhaps all -these contacts annoy him; but he does not say so. Then the altar bell -invites the faithful to kneel; a few who are attentive kneel. Mabel -Clarke has gradually reached her American friends and they surround her -with little subdued cries of joy and affection, while she smilingly -offers the plate among them. The Wests, Milners, Rodds open their -purses and smilingly draw out long white cheques and throw them in the -plate, exclaiming, "Dear Mabel," "Darling," "Mabel dear." - -Overwhelmed, contented, and happy she piles up the cheques in the -middle, under the gold pieces. She smiles and smiles, showing her white -teeth. - -"Thank you, dearest Ellen; thank you, dear, dear Norah." - -The two couples have now reached the back of the church and meet, her -Imperial and Royal Highness, the Archduchess Maria Vittoria, and the -Comte de Roy, Mabel Clarke and Don Vittorio Lante della Scala. They -form a motionless group, for now at the altar the acolyte's bell rings -shrilly for the Elevation, and the congregation is on its knees with -bowed heads. But a pure voice is raised up above at the organ. Lidia -Smolenska sings an _Ave Maria_ in her deep, touching voice, accompanied -by the organ, which a German is playing, a tall German with a pointed, -iron-grey beard and the most beautiful blue eyes--Otto von Rabbe, the -friend of the mountains. The deep notes of the organ accompany the -voice of the Polish lady that penetrates right to the heart, a voice -full of ardour, languor, and melancholy. Some heads are gradually -raised to hear better, faces are turned, and other heads draw together -to speak a word or two in a very low whisper. - -"... exiled?" - -"... nihilist?" - -"... schismatic?" - -"... on the stage?" - -The Elevation bell rings, and almost grudgingly heads are lowered -again, as they listen to the perfect voice filling the church with its -indescribable harmony, and to the organ touched with a master's touch -till it reaches the most intimate fibres of the soul. Again there is a -light whispering: - -"... Von Raabe?" - -"... the great banker?" - -"... musician, nephew of the great master, Raabe?" - -"... a Lutheran?" - -"... a Lutheran playing in a Catholic church?" - -There is a loud ringing: the great mystery of Tran-substantiation has -been softly accomplished once more, though the congregation perceives -nothing but the relief of rising and sitting down again, of being able -to turn towards the organ, as they get up to sit down, and look at the -white face of the Smolenska, where in its pallor is expressed a mortal -melancholy, and who knows what secret voluptuousness. The two couples -who have halted at the back of the church, with bowed heads, while -our Lord descended in the consecrated Host, bow to each other as they -return to their places. - -"_Bonne quête, Altesse!_" exclaimed Mabel Clarke, with a familiar smile. - -The Archduchess Maria Vittoria does not thank her or exchange the good -wishes. Bending her head with a slight bow she withdraws, followed -by the Comte de Roy, and disappears on her side in the lateral nave. -Mabel Clarke with her plate full of money, which she holds on high for -fear of losing any of it, turns to Don Vittorio Lante, encouraging -him to continue the walk, and both are lost on the other side. The -priest at the altar communicates with the species; but no one heeds -him. For now André de Beauregard is singing a motet from Handel. His -pure, crystalline voice resembles a clear spring of mountain water that -rises singing and trilling amidst the rocks of a very lofty ridge, and -proceeds therefrom, ever singing and trilling, amidst meadows and grass -and flowers. Just as the Smolenska's voice is ardent, so is André's -limpid and silvery, and Otto von Raabe with his large, brown, knotty -hands sounds the organ lightly, as if for a gay, childish game. In vain -the second Gospel invites the faithful to rise again; in vain the last -formalities of the Divine Sacrifice unfold themselves. From head to -head the murmuring begins afresh. - -"... He could have millions." - -"... If he liked to." - -"... he doesn't like." - -"... At New York." - -"... _dommage, dommage_." - -"... _dommage_." - -The song dwindles and dies away. The Mass is not yet finished; but all -rise to leave, almost precipitately, while the priest is still kneeling -at the foot of the altar for the last ejaculatory prayers. The church -is at once deserted. Beneath the portico in the bright noontide the -Archduchess stopped for a moment, her niece silently beside her. Both -collectors have deposited their money in the sacristy. Already it is -known that Mabel Clarke has gathered eight thousand francs, made up for -the most part of American cheques. Mabel Clarke is among the respectful -circle of ladies that has been formed before the Archduchess. The -Princess turns to her with a brief smile, as if summoning her to her. -The American girl advances, blushing with complacency. - -"You have done much for the church, Miss Clarke," said the Archduchess -slowly. - -Then, after a moment, with perfect Christian humility, she added: - -"Please thank Mrs. Clarke, too, for her generosity." - -There is a large princely leave-taking round the Archduchess Maria -Annunziata. The ladies make deep curtseys, and for a moment the little -square resembles a royal _salon_. Before even the two Archduchesses -have got into their carriage, Mabel Clarke has taken leave of her -American friends, and she sets off with Don Vittorio Lante by the -longest way that climbs from the Dorf to the "Palace." At a certain -point Mabel Clarke opens her white cambric parasol, and the two young -heads disappear. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -The clouds kept climbing continually behind the hill of the Maloja, -suspended by an impetuous wind, which sometimes grew quiet for a while -and then rose again violently and rudely in immense gusts. The clouds -appeared in great masses white as snow and silver, with a light, -delicate grey, a grey mixed with lily, and a leadlike grey, in every -gradation from white to grey. They appeared in deep, vast masses, -suspended by the wind and spread over the Engadine; they covered the -whole sky and almost seemed to touch the summits of the less lofty -mountains. They were reflected in all their gigantesque forms and -changing colours on the lakes of Sils, of Silvaplana, Campfer, and St. -Moritz. They took away the blue from the sky and the brightness of the -sun from the little towns, villages, and districts, giving them a pale -grey tint. They passed, running and almost galloping, over the large -hill that encloses St. Moritz at the foot of its lake, and passed over -the valley of Samaden down towards Bevers, where the Engadine begins to -descend. - -Experienced eyes, which were raised to the sky in the morning, -curiously and anxiously, perhaps hoped for, and believed in, one of -those sudden and surprising passages of storm clouds which rise from -the Val Bregaglia, the Italian clouds which traverse for an hour or two -the immense plain of the upper Engadine, then descend behind the Valley -of Samaden, towards the lower Engadine, and disappear, leaving the sky -pure and clear, as if their passage had cleansed it. Experienced eyes -had hoped and believed this, relying chiefly on the great wind that -pursued the clouds, that caused the surfaces of the lakes to be covered -with a thousand ripples, that almost formed these little waves with -white crests like a sea; relying on this wind that caused the dust to -whirl on the road from the Maloja to Samaden and all the trees with -their lofty green plumes to rustle lamentingly; trusting that this -terrible wind, which filled with its crashing the whole Engadine, would -at last chase away the Italian clouds, and precipitate them into the -lower Engadine. - -But for hours and hours the clouds continued to ascend from Bregaglia. -For hours they substituted themselves for those which already had -vanished afar, precipitated towards Scanfs and Tarasp; for hours -they came and joined themselves to the clouds not already dispersed, -and added and heaped themselves upon them, more thickly, closely, -and gigantically. Experienced eyes then understood that not even the -imperious and boisterous wind which was rising incessantly from the -Val Bregaglia and spreading them victoriously over all the Engadine, -that was pressing and pursuing them with fury behind the horizon of the -Val di Samaden; they understood sorrowfully that not even that wind -would conquer and overcome the clouds, to free the blue sky and bright -sun. Moreover, suddenly the exhausted and vanquished wind fell. The -conquering clouds ceased to gallop, and spread themselves, at first -quietly and then without movement, like an immense deep pavement, now -white, now pearl-grey, now leaden-grey, over all the Upper Engadine. -Everything became the colour of the clouds: the air, the waters of the -lakes, the colouring of the little rustic houses, lordly villas, towns -and districts; the larches became darker and more gloomy in their brown -verdure. - -It was two in the afternoon. But beneath the deep veil of clouds, -beneath that great canopy which hid the lofty summits, which fringed -the lower peaks and almost razed the more modest hills, in that -atmosphere tinted with a monotonous colour, now white, now grey, but -always pale and lifeless, time seemed not to exist, and it seemed as -if it were a long, equal day, half dead, without dawn, afternoon, -or evening. The furious wind that irritates and excites, exalts and -exasperates, had vanished, and instead the calm sadness, broad and -motionless, of an afternoon without end had spread itself everywhere. - -Even sadder in its imposing lines was the great Valley of Samaden, shut -out and divided from that of St. Moritz by the hill of Charnadüras, -peculiarly cut in two, covered to the right by a pretty little wood -of shady trees, aromatic plants, and Alpine flowers, so austere and -dominated here by the Corvatsch and Rosatch, which are girded and -hemmed in by the Muottas Muraigl, while in the middle, where it is -broadest, the valley opens, showing in the background, over the Roseg -glacier, the very lofty, white, virginal beauty of the tremendous -Bernina. This great valley lacks the grace and fascination of the -delightful lakes of Sils, Silvaplana, and St. Moritz, while through its -immense green meadows flow, foaming white like milk, the Flatzbach, -which comes from the Bernina singing its subdued song, and the little -brook Schlattenbeich. But these foaming, fleeting waters do not succeed -in enlivening and vivifying the countryside--the great valley where -little Cresta and tiny Celerina seem lost, and even Samaden seems -lost in the remote corner of the plain; the great valley that seems -inanimate, although the railway crosses it, and equipages, carriages, -and pedestrians of all kinds traverse it, going and coming from St. -Moritz and Pontresina. The isolated villas gleam white against the -green of the meadows; the hotels of Cresta and Celerina show their -verandahs shaded by awnings and straw or canvas protections for those -who like the open air but fear wind and sun. The Cresta Palace raises -its four storeys with its hundred rooms, carved balconies, and Swiss -banner. Carriages come and go rapidly and slowly from every part, but -the Valley of Samaden preserves its solitary austerity, and this close -veil of clouds which extends from St. Moritz to the extreme horizon -seems as if made to cover it completely, and it seems as if that -colourless, pale air belonged to the Valley of Samaden, and that this -dead afternoon was its afternoon, which better suited its vastness, -solitude, and immense melancholy. - -The villa of Karl Ehbehard rises isolated in a broad meadow, that -gradually slopes from a façade with two storeys to the opposite façade -with three. It is situated between Cresta and Celerina; the principal -façade, that with two storeys, is almost on the side of the high road -which goes from Cresta to Celerina. Round the villa, which is very -new in the bright colouring of its stones, in the light wood and -carving of its verandahs, runs a strip of land which forms a little -garden enclosed by a wooden fence, and in front, at the edge of the -road, by a trellis. This tiny garden which surrounds and embraces -the Villa Ehbehard is planted with shrubs and bright Swiss flowers, -red, yellow, purple, and white; but still all these little plants and -flowers have not had much time in which to grow. The wooden windows -and the central verandah, with their carved balustrades and little -roofs, are also adorned with vases of flowers, mountain carnations, -Alpine geraniums, and winter roses. On the grey, almost white stones -and bright wood these flowers, miraculously cultivated at such an -altitude, smile brightly. At the rear façade of Villa Ehbehard, which -is the taller, looking towards the meadows that billow peculiarly -in little mounds and ditches, on the first floor there is a large -covered, yet open terrace, supported by pillars--an Italian terrace. In -the centre is a large table covered with books and newspapers; there -are a few chairs and arm-chairs, and on the stone parapet are placed -vases with plants. And if from the windows and verandah of the chief -façade of Villa Ehbehard there is a continuous spectacle of people -passing in carriages, on bicycles and on foot, and the train is to be -seen passing from Albula to disappear in the tunnel beneath the hill -of Charnadüras, and opposite there is the Cresta Palace with all its -movement of a caravanserai, and further on the little Hôtel Frizzoni -with its confectionery shop and tea garden, full of tables at which -to take tea at five, and full of people, from the terrace in the rear -of Villa Ehbehard the whole scene changes completely. Here in front a -broad landscape spreads in every direction. To the right, below, is -the gloomy gorge of the Inn, whence it issues like a ribbon of shining -metal amidst the tumultuous billows of the meadows, and near the river -is the brown, almost black wood that jealously hides the sad, little, -deserted lake of Statz; then there is the great canopy of larches -that follows, from the estuary of the Meierei, the road that leads to -Pontresina. To the left in the lifeless air is the little church and -campanile of San Gian di Celerina, where nowadays only the office for -the dead is said, and for the departed who have been buried and have -slept for so many years in the little cemetery; the broad green stretch -towards Samaden, and on high the white peaks of Languard and Albris, -and very far-off the Roseg glacier, and the lady of the mountains, of -snow and ice--the white and fearsome Bernina. It is a landscape of -silence and peace, a landscape of thought and dream. - -On that day, as usual at that hour, Doctor Karl Ehbehard was seated -alone in an arm-chair, reading and yet not reading, as he contemplated -the landscape thoughtfully. Of tall stature, thin and muscular, Karl -Fritz Ehbehard presented an aspect of strength, and his face one of -energy. On the large white forehead, his black hair, which was quite -streaked with white at the temples, formed a thick, untidy tuft, -mixed with white hairs, a rebellious tuft that was displaced by -every movement of the head. Above the mouth a large thick moustache -sprinkled with white hid the expression of the lips and the smile. The -profile was fine and strong, the complexion a rather pale tan. But the -piercing, very piercing, grey eyes were peculiar and impregnated with -a sadness that could also be pride and harshness; peculiar eyes that -pierced the face of whomsoever was present, and spoke with such a flow -of penetration that the timid were frightened and the proud offended. -His neck in the high white collar was rather thin, and so were his -hands. He is in the prime of life, since he has not yet reached fifty, -every act and gesture of his and every change of expression always -indicating a complete fusion of physical force and moral energy. His -eyes hurt with their cutting glance; but still in their depths escape -the sadness which humanly tempers everything and humanly assuages. - -A servant entered with a visiting-card on a tray. With a fastidious air -Karl Ehbehard interrupted his reading and threw a glance at the name on -the card. After a moment of hesitation he said to the man in German: - -"Here." - -Ehbehard put down his books and got up, advancing towards the door of -the terrace which gave on to the apartment. A lady appeared and stopped -at the threshold as if doubtful of coming out. Just bowing slightly -Doctor Karl Ehbehard said to her, pointing to a chair: - -"It is better here, Your Highness." - -Enveloped in a large coat of marten fur, over which she had placed a -fur tippet, with a veil of the finest white lace, the Grand Duchess -of Gotha advanced to the chair, into which she let herself fall, as -if tired by the stairs she had been forced to climb, and after taking -breath for a while, she raised her white veil and carried her fur muff -to her mouth, so as not to breathe suddenly and directly the fresh -air. And Karl Ehbehard saw again the woman's face with its Teutonic -ugliness, spreading features, forehead too high, mouth too broad, -eyes with lashes too bright, eyebrows too light, temples hollowed, -and in addition the traces of disease--a complexion rendered yellow -everywhere, and pinkish on the cheek-bones, the ears very white, the -lips bloodless, and the neck very thin. There was an expression of -fear, oppression, and loss in the almost white eyes. The yellowish hair -was precociously whitened, and drawn back without grace and tightened -into a bunch. All that was feminine was a great richness of apparel, -of lace, and furs over a long, thin, bony body. The Grand Duchess, as -she breathed, opened her lips with a certain effort, showing her large, -yellowish teeth. But in spite of all this she preserved a sovereign air. - -"Still the same, Herr Doctor," she said, in a rather rough voice. - -"Your Highness has slept?" asked the great doctor, indifferently. - -"Slept, yes; five or six hours." - -"That is sufficient. Did you cough on waking?" - -"As every day." - -"Not more?" - -"No." - -"Fever?" - -"A degree or two yesterday evening; four or five degrees." - -"Perspiration?" - -"A little--as usual." - -"Then, Your Highness, there is nothing fresh." - -"Nothing fresh indeed!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, like a little -cry, and coughing immediately afterwards. - -Very coldly and quietly, the great phthisis doctor waited for the Grand -Duchess to begin all the daily grievances, which she came every day to -explain to him, at least to get consolation. - -"I get no better, Herr Doctor." - -"But Your Highness gets no worse." - -"How long can all this last?" - -"A long time, a long time yet." - -She looked at him, with her light eyes more troubled than ever: she -looked at him, half consoled and uncertain. - -"Do you believe that this can last, _mein Herr_?" - -"I believe so," he said, still coldly but firmly. - -"Shall I not die within a month or a year, _mein Herr_? Tell me." - -Coldly, icily, he looked at her with his terribly penetrating eyes, -which, however, were sad and even pitiful. Without hesitation he -answered her. - -"Neither within a month nor a year." - -She bowed her head and sighed deeply: and an expression of comfort -spread itself on the face worn with disease, which had neither beauty -nor grace, but yet inspired interest and pity. - -"May I not leave for Gotha?" she murmured anxiously. - -"Certainly not, Your Highness." - -"The Grand Duke complains of my long absence." - -"Does that matter?" - -"My children are alone; why may I not see them?" - -"Your presence, Your Highness, would do them more harm than good." - -"I am bored here." - -"But you live, Your Highness." - -"Yes, I live, it is true; but I don't care either for the country or -the people," she said, with an accent of disgust. - -"And why?" - -"Because I am ill; because I can no longer do what the others do. I -only like you here, Herr Doctor." - -And she looked at him as at a sacred image, with reverence and almost -with fear. - -"But why?" he asked, without showing surprise. - -"Because you, _mein Herr_, know the secret of my life and death. Won't -you come to Gotha?" - -"No, Your Highness." - -"Not even for me?" - -"Not even for you, Your Highness." - -"Are you so fond of this country? Why do you like it so much?" she -asked weakly, still a little discouraged. - -"Because it has a secret of life and not of death, Your Highness," -added Doctor Karl Ehbehard mysteriously, with a slight bow. - -She understood and rose. She came towards him, took his two hands in -hers, and pressing them said: - -"Do you really believe that I ought to remain in this country?" - -"I believe so, Your Highness." - -"When shall I be able to go away?" - -"I don't know. Certainly not now. Perhaps after a long time." - -She bowed her head and added nothing further. - -"Thanks, _mein Herr_, good-bye till to-morrow." - -"Till to-morrow, Your Highness." - -Without undue hurry, correctly but silently, he led her within the -apartment and let the servant accompany her below to the carriage, to -which were attached two spirited, dapple-grey horses. The Grand Duchess -of Gotha wrapped her marten mantle better around her, pressed to her -neck the fur tippet, closed her mouth firmly behind the close veil, -drew over her knees the soft carriage-rug, and alone and silently, -looking at no one, wrapped in herself, but preserving a regal air, she -vanished to the rapid trotting of her horses towards St. Moritz and -Campfer, where she dwelt in the solitary Villa Sorretta. - -Afterwards the servant ushered in to the doctor on the terrace two -other patients, the brothers Freytag, the great bankers of Vienna, -who only came once or twice a week, the sons and nephews of the great -Freytags, bankers of Frankfort, Hamburg, and London, bankers and -shippers as well. - -Since the winter, which they had passed at the Hôtel Kulm at the -Dorf, save for a break of two months, April and May, when the one had -returned to Vienna and the other to Frankfort, they had repaired to -Doctor Karl Ehbehard twice a week. Of the two Freytag brothers one -only seemed to be ill, because in spite of his thirty-five years his -tall figure was bent, his slender shoulders beneath his navy-blue coat -formed a curve, his breast beneath the white woollen waistcoat with -the gold buttons seemed as narrow as that of a bird. Already his black -hair was scanty and always seemed to be moist; beneath the eyebrows the -eyes were hollow. But underlying all this was a fineness of feature, -a sweetness of expression, and a lordliness of manner that made Max -Freytag even more interesting. The other brother, younger by four or -five years, seemed most healthy. Of middle stature, fat, with a rather -thick throat and neck, very fair with heavy moustaches and bright hair, -Ludwig Freytag had a good-natured, healthy, middle-class appearance. - -Max first began to relate in German all that had happened to him during -the three days that he had not been to Villa Ehbehard. He spoke slowly -with a rather suave voice, saying that every degree of fever had -vanished, that the cough was less, but that he was not sleeping and -eating, that he was not digesting and could not contrive to conquer the -insomnia. The doctor listened, with his hands on the arms of his chair, -motionless and indifferent. - -"Is Frau Freytag still with you?" he suddenly asked. - -"She is still with me." - -"It is a grave imprudence and great sacrifice." - -"I know it is," murmured Max Freytag; "but I can't prevent her. I have -tried, and I cannot." - -"She loves you, and you love her?" asked the doctor harshly. - -"Yes," murmured the other, in an even lower voice. - -"Why did you marry her when you were ill?" - -"I did not wish to marry her because I knew I was ill. She wished to -marry me because I was ill." - -"Frau Freytag is an angel," said the doctor icily. - -"An angel," agreed the other, and became silent. - -After a moment's silence Max Freytag resumed: - -"Do you believe, doctor, that her presence and propinquity does me harm -physically?" - -And all the egoism of an invalid, of a consumptive, was in the anxiety -of this question. - -"No," replied the doctor precisely, "it does you no harm." - -"Without her I could not live," groaned the consumptive. - -"But she could die," declared Karl Ehbehard, fixing Max Freytag with -his sharp eyes, and piercing his soul. - -"Charlotte is so young, so strong, so beautiful," stammered Max Freytag. - -The doctor said nothing more. Then Ludwig Freytag opened his thick, -florid lips and slowly told the doctor the progress of his malady. It -was graver than that of his brother, and while nothing revealed it -externally, while nothing but the expert eye of Karl Ehbehard could -have discovered its creeping, it was making a constant, destructive, -almost invincible progress. While he spoke of the long fits of coughing -that suffocated him, morning, evening, and night, of his agitated -slumbers, of his profuse nocturnal sweating, of the fever that assailed -him at every dawn; fat, gross, rosy, with a bull neck, and his round, -limpidly-blue eyes, almost obese on his short legs, Ludwig Freytag -seemed the picture of health. Seized by the fixed idea of the disease -that was consuming them, Max Freytag, who seemed the more ill, and -Ludwig Freytag, actually the more ill although he did not recognise -it, began to lament, now the one, then the other, of the horrible -existence they were living--Max for ten years, Ludwig for five, the one -thirty-five, the other thirty--an existence consisting only of medical -cures, of a rigorous régime, of obligatory sojournings and obligatory -journeys. Ah, how above everything the two brothers complained of -having to live far-away from Vienna, from Frankfort, from Hamburg, from -London; far from their banking-houses, from the colossal port whence -their ships departed, far from their powerful businesses and their vast -interests, and so losing their great chances of gaining millions with -their stagnating fortune. - -"To be rich does not matter, it is to live that matters," interrupted -Doctor Ehbehard, with a cutting glance. - -"Yes, that was too true," groaned the two brothers, Max with his soft, -sweet voice and perfect distinction, Ludwig fretting, fuming, always -seeming to suffocate. After all living mattered, but _that_ life -apart from every festivity, from every distraction, like two paupers -separated from the world and its pleasures, condemned to measure even -what they ate, to analyse what they drank, destined to live in the -great centres of joy and luxury, like two wandering shadows, avoiding -rooms too warm, verandahs too cold, and smoking-rooms--what a life of -renunciation! - -"One must make renunciations to live," declared Doctor Karl, slightly -pale, with lowered eyes. - -"Yes, renunciations," they said, Max Freytag in an almost weeping -voice, and Ludwig with one of grotesque anger; but what a destiny for -both to be struck down by this cruel disease, which no one in their -family had ever had--both sons of the head of the House of Freytag, the -only sons of the House of Freytag--as if stricken to death by a curse, -although they could live perhaps and drag out their life, yet they must -implacably die of it. - -Suddenly both became silent, in consternation, Max pale and as if -convulsed, Ludwig heated and asthmatical. They became silent, gazing -with eyes full of tears at Doctor Ehbehard, with an expression of great -sorrow and supplication. He from his seat looked at the two ailing -brothers, vowed to infirmity and death; he looked at them and his -eyes lost all indifference and harshness. Perhaps beneath his thick, -sprinkled moustache his lips trembled; for he was slow to answer them. -Before and around the two men the great Alpine landscape, even more -lifeless, beneath the weight of its motionless clouds, spread itself. -And not a noise nor a breath of wind came to give them the living sense -of life. - -Slowly, meaning every word, with a sagacity which did not only come -from science, Doctor Ehbehard began to discuss, one by one, all -the complaints of the brothers, and if there was no promise in his -just words, if there was no false hope in his phrases, at any rate -they inspired patience, and calm hope; they restored equilibrium, -tranquillity, and peace to those agitated spirits. Like two children, -fixing and holding his eyes with their imploring eyes, noting every -word and impressing them on their memory, making no gesture so as to -lose nothing of what he was saying, so as not to lose a fleeting -expression, like children who wished for succour, protection, and -strength, Max and Ludwig Freytag regained courage and moral vigour in -the presence of Karl Ehbehard. He did not speak entirely to Max, who -was the less ill of the two and who might be cured, but he told them -both that their life was still tenacious, and that their youth could -not be conquered either easily or soon. He did not promise them perfect -health, but he promised them the superior energy that supports disease -and ends by obeying it. Karl Ehbehard did not pity their cruel destiny, -which in them was destroying their fortune and their house, but he -invited them to pity so many other invalids, thousands and hundreds -of thousands who were languishing and perishing for want of care and -medicine, sick and languishing of gloomy misery, who had no more means -of supporting their families, and dying, would leave them in extreme -poverty. And all the human sorrow of disease that finds no obstacles or -contrasts, of the disease that ruins, that tortures, that whips, that -slays, since its companion is misery, all the human sorrow of hundreds -of thousands of sufferers who were perishing without succour, medicine -and food, in narrow death-dealing houses, on hard beds of cold and -want--all this inconsolable, disconsolate human suffering was reviewed -in the calm, firm words of Karl Ehbehard, shone from his glance, and -flowed from his voice. The two brothers felt calmed and soothed, as if -their little insignificant sorrow were dissolved in their mind. - -When they had left, Doctor Ehbehard remained for some time quite alone -on his terrace, where he was wont to pass the afternoon, and where, to -the surprise of all his new clients, he preferred to receive the visits -of the sick instead of in his large consulting-room, furnished like -the other rooms, and which looked out on the principal façade at the -back. Again his reading absorbed him, but it was more a concentration -of spirit, a recollection of his thoughts, since he seldom turned over -the pages. Twice while he was thus taken and conquered by his interior -life, his faithful servant appeared at the doorway to tell his master -something, but knowing him quite well and seeing him thus immersed -in silence, and motionless, he had not dared to call him. At last, -at the third time, he ventured to disturb a chair to attract Doctor -Karl's attention, who, raising his head, as if aroused from a lethargy, -looked at him as in a dream. He read the visiting-card that the servant -offered him twice. - -"_La Vicomtesse de Bagdad_," he read in French, and then added to the -servant in German: - -"New?" - -"New." - -She whom Doctor Karl Fritz Ehbehard covered with a most rapid -scrutinising glance, hardly had she appeared on the terrace hesitating -to advance, was a woman of forty-five, very dark and pale, with a thick -mass of black hair without a thread of white, with a face of perfect -features without a wrinkle, of a complete beauty, already mature, and -which, perhaps, would still last for years before declining. Cunningly -this mature beauty was supported by dominant, but not offensive, traces -of cosmetics and bistre--a light shade of pink on the cheeks a little -too pale, a slight trace of rouge on the well-designed lips. There was -an even more cunning taste in the dressing of the hair, in her clothes -and hat, an intense but discreet luxury, an exquisite but yet prudent -elegance. But over all this beauty, which must have been invincible -twenty years ago, and dazzling ten years ago, there was a proud and -scornful expression. At some moments this mature beauty became rather -austere or even gloomy, in the blackness of the eyes, in the soft and -knotted eyebrows, in the closed mouth, as if hermetically sealed. At -a nod from the doctor, who, without showing interest, continued to -scrutinise her, she sat down. - -"Madame has come to consult a doctor?" he asked in French, with a -German accent, but as if he attached no importance to the reply. - -"Yes, Doctor. But do we have to discuss here?" she observed, with a -slight gesture of wonder and perhaps of impatience. - -"Here, Madame," he replied tranquilly. - -"Can we not retire into a room? Will it not be better?" - -"No," he declared, "it is better to remain in the open air in the -Engadine." - -"For sick people?" - -"For sick and healthy," he added, "nothing is of greater value than air -in this country." - -And he threw a glance around at the landscape. The lady bowed, perhaps -not convinced but mollified. - -"Are you ill, Madame?" - -"No, Herr Doctor," she replied. - -And a sudden pallor caused her dark face to become livid. - -"Someone who is most dear to me," she added with lowered eyes, "my -son--my only son--I fear consumption." - -Again a rush of pallor passed over her features. - -"Why did you not bring him with you, Madame?" - -She raised her magnificent black eyes, where an immense pride was -apparent, and looked at the doctor. - -"Through fear, through fear," she stammered. - -"Fear, Madame?" - -"For fear that you might have something serious to tell my son. He is -twenty-five, Doctor." - -"I should have said nothing before him," said the great consumption -doctor slowly. "I should have told you afterwards." - -"Ah, he would have understood everything!" exclaimed the woman -sorrowfully. - -"Is he so ill, then?" - -"Very, very ill, Herr Doctor." - -"For how long?" - -"For a year." - -"And how old is he?" - -"Twenty-five, Herr Doctor; I was twenty when I had him," she declared, -without circumlocution. - -"Have you ever suffered from what he is suffering, Madame?" asked the -doctor coldly. - -"No; never, never," she replied at once. - -"And the father?" asked the doctor. - -"The father of my son was not my husband. I have never been married." - -She said this without timidity and without boldness, with a calm -certainty, as if Doctor Ehbehard ought to know or guess at once who she -was. - -"And was he ill, Madame? Try to remember." - -"Not ill, but very delicate." - -"This illness, then, comes from the father," concluded the doctor. - -"But you will cure him, won't you, Herr Doctor?" she exclaimed -anxiously. "I am come first to tell you all. Doctor, I have only this -son. You must cure him. You must tell me everything, and I will do -everything you tell me. I am very rich, Herr Doctor. My friends have -been very generous to me. I am the _Vicomtesse de Bagdad_; have you -never heard my name? A false name, Herr Doctor. I am not called so. My -real name doesn't matter, nor would my money matter if it were not of -use to cure my son Robert." - -Now she seemed another woman. The disdain and pride which rendered -her beauty austere, and at times gloomy, had disappeared. Anguish was -transforming the womanly face that had lived so many years solely for -pleasure, the senses, and voluptuousness. Each feature revealed simple, -bare, maternal suffering--the suffering of every mother. - -"Doctor, they are sending us away from the hotel where we are! In fact, -all the women tremble for their husbands and sons on my account. They -do not know that I see them not, and know them not. I do not wish to -see or know their men. But in a way it is right. Think, Doctor--the -_Vicomtesse de Bagdad_!" - -Two long tears of anger, shame, and sorrow descended the pallid cheeks -and fell on her bosom. She wiped her face at once, feverishly. - -"Do not disturb yourself," he said in a firm tone, in that tone which -was wont to raise the mind of whomsoever listened to him. "If they send -you away from the hotel, go into a villa; you will find one." - -"Yes, I will find one," she exclaimed, consoled at once. "And you will -come there, Doctor? You will come? You are a virtuous and great man; -if you come to the villa you will have no scandal: you will only find -Robert and me, ourselves alone, the poor mamma with her poor son. You -will come, won't you?" - -"As soon as you have found the villa I will come." - -"And you will cure Robert, Doctor?" - -"I do not know: I don't know at all." - -"But you will try, won't you? You will try?" seizing his hands, with a -mother's cry. - -"I promise to try my best," he replied. - -A short sigh broke the voice of the woman who had lived only for -pleasure and vice, and who now was a mother grieved to the heart. She -choked in her cambric handkerchief, fragrant with a delicate perfume. -She bowed her head a minute to compose herself before leaving, and then -left followed by the silken rustling of her train. - -When Karl Ehbehard was again alone on the terrace, that projected into -the solitary and imposing landscape in the declining day, he did not -resume his reading, nor did he contemplate thoughtfully the austere -lines of the mountains and the great curtain of trees which hid the -road, and the waters running and leaping amidst the thick grass of the -meadows. As if tired, he let his head fall on his breast, and all that -he had seen and heard on that day was weighing on his mind. - -All the morning he had visited in his carriage sick people who could -not leave their houses, from those isolated in far-off villas to those -isolated in the _dépendances_ of hotels, since in the summer-time, -especially, no hotel-keeper wished to have consumptives in his own -hotel, so as not to put to flight other travellers who came to -the Engadine, travellers who came there through love of gaiety, -of pleasure, of luxury, who came to the high mountains through a -refinement of the senses, wishing to unite the spectacle of the beauty -of things to an ardent, febrile, worldly life. - -All the morning, to the trotting of his horses, he had gone to the -Dorf, to the Bad, even to Campfer, awaited everywhere with anxiety. -He had touched fleshless hands still feverish from the night; he had -stooped to gather, with acute ear, at the naked breast of the sick, -the hoarse, interior breathing; he had heard the dry attacks of -coughing following each other precipitously, leaving the sick without -breath; and he had listened to the long, lamenting conversation of -those who felt that they were not growing better, who felt that they -were growing worse and declining to a fatal solution. Indeed, the -whole morning, with persuasive glance, with cold and calm words, with -whatever there was in him of moral force and energy, he had striven -to console all those who were tormented by the fear of death; he had -striven to comfort them without lying to them, without promising them -anything, lest on the morrow they should be bitterly deluded. He had -striven to excite patience in them and tranquil courage, telling them -that when one wishes to grow better and wishes it intensely, one does -grow better, and that a secret of escaping death is to wish not to -die with all the mysterious vigour of will-power. And once again, -morning and afternoon, before the hundred sadnesses more incurable -than phthisis itself, before the hundred woes of poor beings devoured -by disease, he had seen the singular, amazing miracle performed; he -had seen the sick grow calm and serene, resume vigour, and smile, yes, -smile, with vague, indefinite, infinite hope. Through his presence and -will-power for good, through his firm serenity, he had seen the miracle -renewed, however brief and fleeting. The sick felt themselves better -without taking drugs, and felt themselves first tranquillised and then -excited to joy, yes, almost to joy! He knew these miracles of these -strange diseases; pious miracles that make of the consumptive a being -apart, capable of smiling, of hoping, even to the last breath of his -destroyed lungs. He knew these miracles because with his will-power -for good and the fascination of his eyes and words, he understood how -to dominate, conquer, and exalt the changeful, light minds of the -poor sufferers from phthisis. But the effort put forth by him on that -morning and afternoon, more than any other day, had exhausted him. An -immense weariness oppressed his physiognomy and his limbs in the large -arm-chair of black leather, upon the arms of which his rather thin -hands were abandoning themselves, as if they, too, had been struck by -a profound weariness. When after a short time he raised his head, Else -von Landau was before him. - -She had not been announced. Like the Grand Duchess of Gotha, she came -every day, when she felt bad, to the Villa Ehbehard; sometimes, when -she felt better, she came there two or three times a week, like the -brothers Freytag. She knew where to find the doctor and how to enter -discreetly, so as not to disturb him if he were reading, studying, or -if he were thinking and resting. She had entered cautiously without -warning him of her presence, and had sat down at some distance from -him, opening her mantle of otter-skin with sweet, silvery revers of -chinchilla, beneath which she was dressed in brown cloth. She had -untied the large veil which surrounded face and neck, and all the hat -and head. Her delicate, white face, with the clearest complexion, -appeared even whiter beneath the shining, soft chestnut hair. On the -white temples, beneath the grey eyes, a network of little blue veins -was delineated. With hands that clasped a large bunch of Alpine flowers -abandoned on her lap, now and then biting her lips to make them redder, -and coughing very slightly so as not to be heard, she waited patiently -till Karl Ehbehard was aware of her. Seeing her the doctor started; but -he restrained a movement of impatient weariness. - -"How are you, then, Fräulein Landau?" he asked her monotonously in -German, speaking as if in a dream. - -"I am rather bad, Doctor," she replied, with a fleeting smile on her -lips. - -Her voice was soft but hoarse; the veil, however, increased its -penetrating softness. - -"Why? Tell me everything." - -She settled herself better in her chair, crossed her exquisitely booted -little feet, which peeped out from the skirt, put down her chinchilla -muff, smelt her Alpine flowers, and said: - -"The pain up here has tormented me all the evening and night. This -morning, too, when coughing there were some streaks of blood." - -"Have you kept them, Fräulein Landau?" he asked, perfectly returned to -himself, and again become the doctor. - -"No," she replied, with a shrug of the shoulders. "I thought it was -useless." - -"It was not useless." - -"Another time I will not fail," she murmured, in a slightly ironical -tone; "I seem to have had fever again for two or three days." - -"Did you use the thermometer?" - -"No," she replied, "I did not use it. I have thrown away my -thermometer; it tortured me too much. It is an odious instrument. When -I have fever I recognise it from the palms of my hands." - -"Still, it should have been necessary to know the degree." - -"What does it matter, Doctor?" she said, a little more lively. "To -sadden my mother? She has too much sorrow, the poor dear!" - -"But did you follow out my instructions?" the doctor asked her -patiently. - -"I take all your medicines, Doctor, because my mother makes me take -them: I eat what you tell me because she makes me eat it," she -declared, again smiling a little sarcastically. - -"What about the rest?" - -"The rest?" - -"Do you go to bed early?" - -"No, Doctor, I go to bed very late every night." - -"And what do you do?" - -"I dance nearly every evening, or chat with my friends, or play bridge." - -"Do you dance in a _décolleté_ dress?" - -"Certainly; every evening I am in a _décolleté_ dress, even if there is -no dancing." - -"And you have supper sometimes? Do you drink champagne?" - -"Yes, Doctor; I adore champagne." - -"And what do you do in the morning and afternoon?" - -"I go out on foot or in a carriage. We make excursions. I walk a great -deal when I can. I went on foot to the Roseg glacier." - -"Always in company?" - -"Always: I have various flirts, Doctor. One of them especially is -more than a flirt. He loves me. I am fond of him and torment him with -jealousy of my other flirts." - -The conversation developed, calmly and coldly on the Doctor's side, -brightly and mockingly, with a touch of impertinent bitterness, on -Else's side. He said to her: - -"Why are you doing all this? To kill yourself?" - -"To die the sooner," she declared suddenly, becoming serious. - -"Don't you care to live?" - -"I don't care about living, sick, half alive, dying," she declared, -still very serious. - -"You are making your poor mother despair." - -"That is true; but it is better for her to get used to despair for the -time when she will lose me." - -"She will die of grief." - -"After me: I shall not see it, it will be all over," concluded Else von -Landau gloomily. Then suddenly she began to laugh. - -"Dear Doctor, you have not told me, but I know that I am doomed. -Certainly I could drag on my life for years by busying myself only -with my drugs, my régime, the heat of my room; by watching myself -from morn till night, not speaking for fear of tiring my lungs, like -Maria Goertz, who has lived two years here with a closed mouth; by -fleeing from balls, festivities, theatres, engagements, only wearing -the thickest furs, unable to go in _décolleté_ or transparent dresses, -unable to have either flirt or lover, forced to live summer and winter -at St. Moritz Dorf or Davos, or failing that in a sanatorium. Oh, no, -Doctor! I don't wish to live thus! That is no life; I prefer to end -it--to end it at once." - -Her large, grey, velvety eyes, with almost blue pupils, flashed with a -desire of life and death, her complexion was flushed, and the little -blue veins of the temples were almost swollen. A funereal beauty was in -her countenance. - -"Doctor, Doctor," she resumed, in a higher but rougher voice, "I don't -want to exile myself, to cloister myself; I don't want to renounce -anything life should give me or place within my reach. I don't want -to renounce being beautiful, being loved, smiling, and becoming -exhilarated with air, and sun, and love. I wish to resign nothing and -prefer to live less, live a very short time, sooner than renounce -things. I am thirty and a widow. I have no sons and am rich. After my -death there is nothing but silence, Doctor. I don't want to renounce -things." - -He looked at her, recognising in her the subtle delirium of -consumptives. He looked at her, so beautiful, so charming and fragile, -made to live, yet so desirous of life and death, and at last his heart, -after the long day of fatigue and suffering for others, so closed and -granite-like, opened and welled with an immense pity for her who was -invoking death, who was ready to meet it, and who was embracing it, -because she would renounce nothing. - -Else von Landau resumed deliriously: - -"Doctor, would you renounce them? Would you renounce every good and joy -and triumph, every excitement. Would you renounce them?" - -He looked at her, with a glance laden with mystery and strength, and -answered her in a clear voice: - -"I did so: I made the renunciation." - -Else was profoundly surprised and trembled all over, questioning him -with her beautiful, supplicating eyes. - -"Do you know how old I was when I was seized by the chest affection you -have?" he asked her, in a cutting voice. - -"You? You?" - -"At twenty-three I was seized and overthrown by your malady," he -continued. "I am from Basle, an old, grey, cold place; but I went to -study medicine in Germany, at Heidelberg, and lived there four years -in great ardour for study and science, in a dream that absorbed and -devoured me. My masters conceived for me the highest hopes. I myself -was impetuous, but restrained myself with waiting for some profound -scientific mystery that might be revealed to my desire and my tireless -discipline of work. One winter evening I was caught on the road by a -heavy shower. Next day I had inflammation of the lungs. I spat blood -for several days and was dying. With difficulty I was rescued from -death, and six months afterwards, at twenty-three, Fräulein von Landau, -I had tuberculosis of both lungs. Those who were tending me tried to -deceive me; but I was a doctor and knew I must die. Someone told me -to come here for six months or a year. Full of fever, still spitting -blood, no longer sleeping or taking nourishment, and despairing of -everything, I came here. I am forty-eight; for twenty-five years I have -been here and I have never left." - -"Never at all? Never at all?" she cried, surprised, moved to the depths -of her soul. - -"Never. Twenty-five years ago the Engadine was an almost deserted -region, wild and very sad in some places; fearful and tragic in others. -Some modest little inn in the height of summer gave hospitality to a -few simple lovers of the mountains, to some invalid or convalescent. -There were no conveniences or pleasures or luxury or elegance. Vast -solitary horizons, immense meadows whose flowers very few human feet -disturbed; mountains unharmed from people's contact, a country with -an austere, solitary, and powerful beauty. I lived, so poor was I, in -a little rustic cottage belonging to some Engadine peasants. I fed on -milk, vegetables, and herbs. I had no one with whom to exchange a -word, since even then the healthy and robust fled from those stricken -with my terrible disease. I wandered along difficult and rugged paths -that no one had tracked; I drank at the icy waters of the springs -beneath the glaciers; I gathered the mountain flowers which filled with -perfume my little room, and I read a little. In winter my confinement -became fearful amidst the snow and ice, shut up at first in my room; -then mad with weariness, boredom, and gloom I sallied forth, in the -cruel cold, every day on the snow and ice. After a year my malady was -conquered. The pure, cold air, the pure water, a life of simplicity -and purity, an isolation that pacifies and soothes, an interior life -profound and free, the treasures that the high mountains jealously -preserve, that are spread out only to humble and devout seekers after -health, silence and peace--those treasures were granted me and I was -saved. I never left the Engadine again: I made the renunciation." - -She listened to him, silent and moved, her eyes clouded with tears. - -"I renounced every joy and delight, every triumph. I might have -discovered an immense secret of science to reveal it to a stupid world. -I might have signed with my name a truth still unknown and benefited -with noble gifts the human race; I might have been illustrious and -celebrated--but I renounced everything. I might have been loved, -I might have loved and founded a family, had sons, and surrounded -myself with beings who might have been blood of my blood--I renounced -all that. I might have lived in a metropolis, run through the world, -visited unknown countries, known far-off peoples. I renounced them; -everything I renounced. What am I, forsooth? A doctor, a wretched -doctor, a doctor of rich consumptives in a summer and winter station. -I am paid handsomely, but I am nothing but a poor doctor who strives -to prolong a life here and there as well as he can--nothing more. -For twenty-five years I have not moved from here: I am alone, no one -loves me, I love no one; I have neither glory nor love, no sons, no -pleasures." - -"And why all this, why?" cried Else von Landau, anxious and agitated. - -"Because one must live as long as possible: because one must die as -late as possible; because one must, you understand, combat death," he -said solemnly. - -"Did you not suffer from the renunciation? Did you not suffer from what -you missed? Do you not suffer from what you are missing?" she asked, -still discouraged, but already conquered. - -"I suffered _then_," replied Karl Ehbehard. "I suffered greatly. These -woods and rocks, once so solitary, have seen my tears. Afterwards I -suffered no more. And now some sweetness comes into my life in this -exercise of my art: if I manage to snatch some infirm creature from -death--a rare sweetness. But nothing more. So even renunciation offers -at last its compensations. Renounce, dear lady,"--and his voice grew a -little tender--"these joys which are precipitating you towards death. -Seek other things up here for a year or two amidst natural and pure -beauties. Live here in peaceful contemplation of sky and clouds and -air, of proud mountains and terrible glaciers; of slender streams, deep -woods, and fragrant flowers. Live here with yourself, creating a more -intense interior life. Do you not see? This land has been invaded by -a horde of pleasure-seekers and vicious people, whereby the sick and -ailing and lovers of the mountains are being overturned and disappear. -The land has been far too much sown with villas, immense hotels and -little hotels, and has been defiled by railways, electric trams, and -funiculars; in every way the attempt has been made to destroy her -beauty and secret of life. But they will never destroy them! Her beauty -and purity are eternal and immortal. Ah, renounce the world, dear lady; -later let the pleasure-seekers depart, and remain alone in the presence -of all that is lofty, sincere, and vivifying. Seek no more the crowd -that takes you and consumes your strength; mix no more with them, fly -from their ardent, sterile pleasures, refuse their vain and dangerous -gifts--renounce them, renounce them! If you want to live and be cured, -renounce them. Here by yourself in solitude and silence, in contact -with lofty things, now gentle, now terrible, the great treasure of -health that the mountains guard and concede only to fervent worshippers -will be granted to you. Make the renunciation or die. I am the apostle -of life." - -"I will obey you," she said, subdued. - -He rose; and with a simple, friendly action took her hand. - -"Your hard sacrifice will later have its reward," murmured Karl -Ehbehard, in a subdued voice. - -She questioned him with her beautiful, velvety eyes. - -"If he who loves you and whom you love knows how to wait, he will have -you," added Karl Ehbehard. - -An intense smile of happiness appeared on Else von Landau's lips. - -"So much was not granted to me," he ended by saying, sadly. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Thoughtfully and dreamily Lucio Sabini was dallying, stretched in his -arm-chair beside his writing-table; a newspaper had fallen from his -hand and lay opened on the carpet, his cigarette had gone out and he -had not lit another. In the little, sympathetic Hôtel Caspar Badruth, -with its rather small rooms, every summer for some years he had always -occupied the same room, one of the largest and most beautiful, with -two windows looking on to the lake. He had divided the large room -into two parts with a tall screen of Japanese silk, quaintly bordered -with flowers and plants, animals and figures. On one side the bedroom -was isolated, on the other quite a little _salon_ had been devised, -with his arm-chairs, writing-table, and little tables, and on this -ordinary furniture Lucio had placed fabrics, vases, photographs, a -shining silver writing-_nécessaire_, a red leather writing-case, and -some pocket-books; in fact, everything personal and intimate that can -conquer the discouraging banality of an hotel bedroom. Although the -dinner-hour was drawing rapidly near, Lucio remained in his arm-chair, -still in the dressing-gown he had donned an hour ago on returning from -a walk. His servant, Francesco, who for ten years had followed him -everywhere, and who in the ten years had especially learned never to -direct a remark to his master except when asked, and then to reply in -the least number of words possible, had noiselessly prepared on the -other side of the screen what was necessary for his master's evening -toilette, even to another cigarette-case full of cigarettes and a silk -neckerchief to place under the overcoat, and silently and discreetly -had vanished, shutting the door without noise. Probably Lucio Sabini -had not even been aware of his presence. It was nearly eight o'clock. -There was a knocking at the door. With a start Lucio, still _distrait_ -and far-away, called out, "Come in." - -"I am come to say good-bye," said Franco Galatà, entering, and offering -his hand to Lucio. - -Lucio conjured a vague smile, took the hand, looked for his -cigarette-box, and opened it. - -Franco Galatà, Prince of Campobello, was a Sicilian gentleman of -thirty-five, who passed but two or three months of the year at Palermo -and one at Licata, where his property was. The rest of the year he -was always travelling, to Rome, Paris, Biarritz, Ostend; to Monte -Carlo, Cairo, and St. Moritz, always mixing with the most brilliant -society, knowing everything and everybody. Of medium stature, but lean -and robust, very brown of countenance, with a little spiked beard, -and two very black eyes, slightly bald, a very good fencer, a perfect -and tireless dancer, speaking French and English, and even Italian, -with a strong Sicilian accent, Franco Galatà, Prince of Campobello, -at first succeeded in being attractive; but his attraction did not -last. His acquaintances changed frequently, not from year to year, -but from season to season. People with whom he was intimate for three -months, on the fourth month greeted him no more, and he himself avoided -them, proudly and mockingly. Friends liked him for a short time, and -then suddenly spoke ill of him, and he, Franco Galatà, spoke ill of -them. Women grew agitated in speaking of him, changed the subject, -or withdrew. Lucio Sabini gave the Prince of Campobello a worldly -sympathy, very uncertain and very superficial, in which at bottom there -was doubt and repugnance. - -"Are you leaving St. Moritz?" he asked courteously. - -"I am leaving this hotel, dear Sabini. I am going to the Grand Hotel. I -waited till they had a room free. This evening I am going to occupy it." - -"Don't you like the 'Badruth'?" - -"Oh, a regular box. There's nothing to do," exclaimed the Sicilian. - -"What do you mean?" - -"With the ladies, I mean to say," explained Franco Galatà. - -"Don't you think there are beautiful women here?" suggested Lucio, -becoming very cold and staring at the Prince of Campobello. - -"Here? Very few: well acquainted with me and all, and I very well known -to them. There's nothing to do," he repeated, with an even harder -accent; "therefore I am going elsewhere." - -"You travel to find women?" asked Lucio coldly, placing himself in -unison with Galatà. - -"For nothing else," affirmed the Prince of Campobello. "It is the only -thing that interests me, pleases me, amuses me. I find nothing else -better in life, such as it is," and he sighed lightly. - -"And do one or many please you?" - -"They all please me, even the least beautiful and the least young. -Those who please me most are the ones I can't possess," concluded -Galatà, with a slightly irritable accent. - -"And do you never fall in love?" asked Lucio icily. - -"In love? Not at all. I should be silly to let myself fall in love. -Sometimes they believe I am in love; and sometimes love matters nothing -at all to them," murmured the Prince cynically. - -"Therefore you are going to the Grand Hotel," said Lucio, with a sneer. - -"Naturally! What is one to do in a small hotel, with such few people -as we are, all acquainted with each other? Everything is noted and -observed, everything is heard. Hurrah for the large hotels, Sabini! -For every reason there is nothing like them for what I want. Plenty -of unknown or little known women; I unknown to them or little known; -immense _salons_, immense halls, vast terraces--the earthly paradise, -my friend, the paradise of adventures of a day, of three days, of a -week, especially when they are on the point of leaving ... when they -are unlikely to be seen again, you understand, they dare more easily." - -The Prince of Campobello laughed, with his red, carnal, sensual mouth -beneath his black moustaches; and his black beard shook a little, -and his eyes shone with a desire that was ever satisfied and ever -unsatisfied. - -"But these women whom you meet on your travels, dear Galatà, are they -easy to conquer?" asked Lucio, with cynical curiosity. - -"Ah, not all certainly, my friend; but I try with all." - -"With all?" - -"No one excluded. It is my method. I assure you it is the best way." - -There was a brief silence. Lucio did not interrupt him. - -"I like you so much; come away with me to my hotel," said Galatà -familiarly, not heeding the silence. - -"You think so?" murmured the other, fencing, with the coldest -politeness. - -"I have got to know that there are some very eccentric Russian women, -also two or three divorced English women, a _demi-vierge_ or two. Come, -we will amuse ourselves. Do not remain in this virtuous barrack." - -"Oh, I shouldn't amuse myself there," declared Lucio, somewhat -decisively. - -"What? Don't you like women?" - -"Yes; but one at a time." - -"Really? And are you capable of loving the one? Seriously?" exclaimed -Galatà, astonished and almost scandalised. - -"I am even capable of loving the one seriously." - -"For some time? Then you give her up?" - -"Later, much later, I give her up ... when I have ceased to love her." - -"What ingenuousness!" exclaimed the Prince of Campobello, astonished. - -"Infantile, infantile! I have no spirit in these love affairs," said -Lucio Sabini, with a sneer; "but I wish you every success there! You -shall tell me about it afterwards when we meet." - -"All you want to know. A pity you won't come." - -They took leave of each other at the door. Coming down the corridor -someone was advancing towards Lucio. He stopped beside him, while -the Prince of Campobello, after a slight, sarcastic smile, which the -new-comer did not see, withdrew with the elastic step of a good fencer -and dancer. With a rearward movement at the threshold of his room, -Lucio Sabini tried to escape the meeting and conversation with Serge de -Illyne; but he did not succeed. Serge, bending his tall stature and his -beautiful face, said to him in the purest French, in a musical voice: - -"Allow me; I should like to say a few words." - -Lucio, with bad grace, was forced to stand aside and let him pass. -Serge de Illyne remained standing because the other did not ask him -to sit down. He was a tall young man, of almost statuesque figure, -in modern attire. He was already in evening dress, with a stupendous -orchid in the buttonhole and a peculiar waistcoat of pale green velvet, -with oxidised silver buttons. Serge was of rare masculine beauty, -with a very white complexion, large, dark eyes loaded with melting -sweetness, a florid mouth beneath the soft, light chestnut moustaches, -and a round, white neck. His perfectly shaped, pink hands were loaded -with quaint rings, of antique shape, with gems of strange colours, and -beneath his shirt-cuff a gold bracelet fell over his wrist, in the -fashion of a snake with carbuncle eyes. - -"Why, dear Count Sabini," asked the Russian, in his sing-song voice, -"do you smoke those bad cigarettes? Let me send you some of my -exquisite ones!" - -"Thank you!" said Sabini a little curtly, "but I am used to my own." - -The Russian, in a tranquil attitude, with his beautiful face on which -bloomed a smile, was not discouraged. - -"Do you use _eau de Lubin_?" he resumed. "Why don't you use a mixture -of _ambre_ and _chypre_? I assure you they are delicious." - -And he offered him a pink, bejewelled hand, as if to make him smell it. -Sabini pretended not to notice it. He neither touched nor smelt the -hand and replied rudely: - -"They are perfumes for women, in fact for _cocottes_. I don't like -them." - -The young Russian shook his head graciously. Then seeing that Lucio -Sabini, staring a little impatiently, was questioning him with his -eyes, he said: - -"I came to ask you, dear Sabini, if you would accompany us after dinner -to St. Moritz Bad." - -"With you and others? With whom, then?" - -"Why, first of all with me, and with Hugo Pforzheim, you know, dear -Hugo, the graceful German, and Lewis Ogilvie, the Scotch psychologist -who has invented the theory of the music of colours, and James Field, -another friend, an artist of the pencil. His drawings are stupendous; -don't you know them?" - -"All your set, in fact?" asked Lucio, restraining his disgust. - -"Of course, all our set," murmured Serge de Illyne candidly; "we are -going to Reginald Rhodes's--you must know the name, for he is already -celebrated--the English poet. He has condescended to read us a poem -this evening, an unpublished poem, on a fascinating subject." - -"Which is?" - -"'Narcissus' is the title." - -"Ah," exclaimed Lucio Sabini, at the height of impatience, "and you -want me to come as well? Are there to be ladies there?" - -"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Serge, with a gesture of annoyance; "we never -have women with us." - -"You dislike them, eh?" sneered Lucio. - -"We don't dislike them. We think them vain, silly, useless creatures," -said de Illyne contemptuously. - -"Well, if there are no women I can't come," concluded Lucio, smiling -sarcastically; "I like women's society." - -"_Dommage, dommage!_" murmured the Russian, in his melodious voice. - -"This evening I have a lover's tryst," said Lucio Sabini roughly. - -"Oh," exclaimed Serge, as if scandalised, but questioning with his -beautiful, tender eyes. - -"Really: a lover's tryst. And I must leave you to dress," insisted -Lucio, still somewhat insolently. - -"With whom--a lover's tryst?" murmured Serge de Illyne. - -Lucio then looked at him with such intense and silent disdain on his -face that the handsome Russian paled a little, turned on his heels, -and departed, bowing his tall person with the statuesque figure, while -Lucio Sabini, with an energetic movement of the shoulders, disguised as -an offensive farewell, retired behind the screen to dress. His toilette -was, more than usual, long and accurate. He had almost finished when -he heard a voice calling him from the other side of the screen. - -"Sabini, are you ready? Are you coming to dinner?" - -Lucio put forth his head only from the screen and recognised Francis -Mornand, a French gentleman, who had entered the room without Lucio -being aware of it. Very thin, pallidly brown, with a clean-shaven face -on which a calm and peaceful expression of correctness was permanently -spread, with close-cropped hair, still black at the forehead, but -slightly sprinkled with white at the temples, with monocle fixed -without support, causing not a single wrinkle to the face, and dressed -in austere elegance, when he was silent Francis Mornand had a more -English than French appearance. But no one ignored the fact that he was -one of the wittiest men in Engadine society, as of any society in which -he happened to find himself. Everyone knew that, having lived thirty or -forty years in the great cosmopolitan world, with an iron memory and -an extraordinary adaptability of spirit, he was a _conteur_ without a -rival. - -"I am nearly ready, Mornand," replied Sabini, with a smile, "but -whither will you lead me?" - -"First to dinner with me, then to our place." - -"I must dine in haste, because it is late," replied Sabini, who had -again gone behind his screen. - -"As you like. Afterwards we will take a turn." - -"Where?" replied the other, without any curiosity. - -"To St. Moritz Bad, to the 'Kurhaus,' where the great tenor Caruso -is singing for a charity. I have some tickets, also for you. After -midnight to the 'Palace.' Paul Fry--you know him--has arrived, the -greatest cutter at baccarat, who always cuts a five. There is to be -play to-night, when all the ladies have gone to bed. It is to be a -great game--most interesting. All those who have no money play hard." - -"I can't come," replied Lucio Sabini, stepping into the room, already -dressed. - -"And why?" asked Francis Mornand, with a little smile. - -"Because I have to go elsewhere." - -"Elsewhere?" asked the Frenchman. - -Again Lucio did not reply. He took from a glass vase a magnificent -white rose, a single rose, and placed it in the buttonhole of his -dress-suit. - -"You are going to the ball at the 'Kulm.' You are very much in love -with Miss Lilian Temple," said Francis Mornand kindly, with a slight -smile. - -Lucio stood still, with lowered eyes, and made no reply. - -"Well, dear Sabini, at any rate if you will dine with me, since I am -all alone this evening, I will tell you the history of Miss Lilian -Temple," declared Mornand, in an indifferent tone, without even looking -at his companion. - -"Her history? Her history?" blurted Lucio, with a tremble in his voice. -"Has Lilian Temple a history?" - -"See how much in love you are, Sabini!" added Francis Mornand, -chuckling quietly. "Confess that you love her." - -"I adore her," replied Lucio simply. - -"Well, my dear fellow," declared the amiable Frenchman, placing his arm -in Lucio's, with affectionate familiarity, "Miss Temple has no history. -She is an ideal creature; and if I say so you can believe me. But if -you do not cruelly desert me at dinner, I can tell you the history of -Miss Lilian Temple's family, which I knew well in London. That ought to -interest you a lot, if you really love her." - -"I adore her," repeated Sabini, and his words were veiled with emotion. -"Let us go." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -Nearly all the women and girls who had come that evening to the -great ball at the "Kulm" were dressed in white. In the immense hall -that--with its richly painted but very low ceiling, the general -vastness of which is broken by strange pillars, broad and low to -support it--resembles, or is meant to resemble, an Egyptian temple; -in this immense and characteristic hall, where the whole of one -wall opened out on to a verandah of shining glass, overlooking lake -and wood, a crowd of women kept fluctuating, gathering in groups or -separating amongst the pillars or thick clusters of green plants, as -they sat for a while on the divans and rocking-chairs, or rose to go -to the _salons_ or the ballroom. And all this whiteness of cambric -and silk, of lace and tulle, of marble and silver united and melted -together, contrasted and harmonised, as if in a _chorale_ of whiteness, -with livelier and calmer shades or softer blendings of white. In the -long corridor which separates or leads to the hall on the right, with -drawing-rooms and reading or conversation-rooms, and to the left to -the majestic ballroom, on the velvet benches were two rows of girls -and women, nearly all dressed in white, who were talking quietly to -their neighbours, as they scarcely waved their white gauze and lace -fans. Other ladies in white were coming and going along the corridor, -from the hall to the ballroom, in couples and groups, chatting in a -low voice with whomsoever was accompanying them. Only here and there -appeared a pale blue dress, or a pink or yellow, to be overcome at -once by twenty or thirty white dresses. Occasionally in the quiet -corners of the hall, at the back of the reading, conversation, and -smoking rooms, appeared elderly ladies, dressed in black and in rich, -heavy stuffs, such as black velvet and brocade. On the grey and white -head shone an old diamond ornament, or some old jewel flashed on the -covered bosom, where it fastened a rich scrap of old lace. - -Nothing but English, though of course in different accents, was to -be heard. English and American women were fraternising; the English, -gentle but reserved, the Americans more expansive and more charming, -were gathered together in the hall and rooms, especially in the famous -corridor, while outside, from the other hotels of the Dorf and Bad and -from the villas, guests began to arrive. The English ladies of the -"Kulm" watched the arrivals with discreet or even cold glances, and if -they were surprised in the act of watching, they quickly turned their -eyes to another part, detachedly, with that perfect power of correct -isolation which is one of the greatest spiritual gifts of the English. -More happily curious, the American ladies turned and smiled or uttered -a rapid word or two in a whisper; but no one caught the comments, so -subdued and brief were they. A French woman, the Marquise de Brialmont, -with a great mass of light golden hair, on which she had placed a very -large hat of black tulle, covered with black feathers, dressed in black -lace, arrived, appeared, and passed with a rustling of silken skirts, -leaving a strong perfume behind her. Miss Ellis Robinson, amidst a -group of English friends, slowly fanned herself while her friends got -ready. Lia Norescu, as beautiful as a spring dawn, in a cloudy dress -of very pale blue, with imperceptible silver revers waving like a -flower in a light breeze, with a silver ribbon that surrounded her -shining brown hair, entered, followed by five or six of her suitors, -and further behind by her silent mother, in the violet brocade dress -of patient and somnolent mothers who wait evening and night for their -daughters to finish dancing and flirting. Lia Norescu's beautiful -mouth curved in a fleeting sneer of disdain at the crowd of white-clad -English women, some of whom were beautiful, some less so, others not -at all in their dresses which were too simple and unpretentious, with -the fresh flower in the hair. But none of the English girls seemed to -be aware of her. Madame Eva Delma, a theatrical celebrity, who earned -two hundred francs at each performance, entered--she was an enormously -fat Australian who came every year to St. Moritz in the attempt to -get even a little thinner--dressed entirely in red, which made her -more conspicuous, breathless from the few steps she had climbed, and -followed by a pale, thin little husband. Other guests arrived, some -loudly, others fashionably dressed, and in spite of the rather too -pronounced splendour or refined elegance of the French, Russian, -Belgian, Austrian, and Italian ladies, the English girls with their -fair hair simply adorned with flowers, and the American girls with -their black helmets of dark hair, overwhelmed them by their large -numbers; and contrasted with the few red, black, yellow, and blue -dresses, all their white dresses formed the harmony and beauty of that -immense picture. - -When Lucio Sabini, after leaving his hat and coat in the cloak-room, -entered the "Kulm" hall alone, he at once perceived that the ball had -begun. The spacious room, with its appearance of a Pharaoh's temple, -was almost deserted; the bright light of the electric lamps illuminated -the thick clumps of palms, the rich baskets of flowers which adorned -the recesses, and a few old ladies who were staying behind, lost and -swallowed up by remote corners. He scarcely hurried his step in the -almost deserted corridor, giving a glance to the sitting-rooms on -the right, where some old gentlemen and ladies were reading papers or -playing bridge in silence, while there reached him, now stridently, -now languidly, the burthen of the Boston waltz from the ballroom. -Half-way down the corridor he saw a girlish figure in a white dress -advancing towards him, and he recognised her at once from afar. He -stopped, expecting her to recognise him as she advanced with bowed head -at a rapid pace; but she only did so when close to him. A light cry -of surprise and emotion issued from Lilian Temple's lips, and a blush -covered her face to the roots of her fair hair. - -"Ah, here you are!" she stammered, perceiving that by her blushing she -was betraying her emotion too much. - -"Here I am," murmured Lucio Sabini, taking her ungloved hand, and -barely brushing it with his lips. - -Alone in that deserted corridor they glanced at each other two or three -times. Lilian Temple was dressed in a white stuff, a light silk that -resembled a muslin, which assumed simple and pure lines with a very -slight rustling. A large white ribbon, knotted behind, formed a belt, -and fell in two long streamers. The corsage was modestly opened in a -round at the neck and bust; it was trimmed with a fine tulle which -gave a cloudy appearance to the stuff and the transparent complexion. -Round her neck she wore a black velvet ribbon with three little silver -buckles. She had at her waist three magnificent white roses; in the -fair hair, of a childish fairness, which she knotted on her pretty -head in three coils, she had placed amidst the curls another white -rose. Her whole being breathed youth, freshness, and purity. Everything -about her was more than ever virginal and alluring--the deep blue eyes, -the transparent pearliness of the face and neck and bosom, the sudden -changes of colour in the face, and the open and disappearing smile. - -"And Miss Ford?" asked Lucio at last. - -"She is playing bridge with some friends," replied Lilian slowly. - -"Does she like bridge? _Brava_, Miss Ford!" he said, with a smile of -satisfaction. - -Again they were silent, looking at each other. - -"Thank you for the beautiful flowers," she continued, in a low voice. - -He looked at the roses Lilian kept at her waist and the rose that was -languishing amidst her hair. They were those he had sent her in the -afternoon. - -"Thank you, Miss Temple, for honouring my flowers," said Lucio, in his -subdued and penetrating voice; "I wear your colours, as you see." - -She looked at the white rose he had in his buttonhole, and smiled -slightly. - -"After the ball, Miss Temple, we will make an exchange. You shall give -me the rose that has been in your hair or one from your waist, and I -will give you mine, if you like." - -Lilian Temple listened with her little blond head inclined, just like a -bird's. - -"Will you give me one of your roses?" he asked, in a still lower and -more penetrating voice, "one of your roses to keep me company after I -leave you to-night, when I am alone in my room? Will you give me one?" - -As if to speak better, he took the little, long white hand without a -glove and pressed it slightly between his own. - -She raised her pure eyes, blue as periwinkles, to him and replied in a -faint voice: - -"Yes." - -"And you will keep the rose I have worn beside you to-night, Miss -Temple? You will keep it? To remind you of me to-night and to-morrow?" - -In his subdued voice there was more than tenderness, there was ardour, -an ardour violent and repressed, as he squeezed the little, imprisoned -hand. - -"I will keep it," she said, with a trembling of her lips that were -speaking, and a trembling of her little hand between those of Lucio -Sabini. - -Someone was coming from the ballroom and from the hall. He let the -little hand fall. Regaining her composure she said: - -"Won't you come with me to the ballroom?" - -"Later on, Miss Temple," replied Lucio, still a little disturbed. - -"Oh, no, at once!" exclaimed Miss Temple gracefully. "It is a beautiful -ball, and full of such pretty girls, Signor Sabini." - -"All English, I imagine. Then they must be very pretty." - -"There are many Americans; but they are very beautiful too. Oh, I like -all this so much," she said, with ingenuous enthusiasm. - -"So you like a ball, Miss Temple?" - -"Of course," and she smiled with simple, youthful gaiety. - -"And you want to dance?" he murmured, frowning. - -"Why, yes!" - -"With whom do you wish to dance?" he insisted, a little seriously. - -"With you if you like," she answered, understanding at last what he -meant. - -"All the time with me?" he asked, with a stern face, as if he were -imposing a condition. - -"All the time with you," she accepted, with a smile. He was more than -ever intoxicated by that smile; but he knew how to control himself. He -gave her his arm and they proceeded to the door of the ballroom. But -a crowd, of men in particular, cumbered the threshold and prevented -people from entering and leaving; so they waited patiently till they -could enter. They waited some time, exchanging a few words _sotto -voce_, she lifting her little blond head to his, where nestled the -fragrant white rose he had given her, and fixing his eyes with that -glance which bewitched him, so much did it give to him the complete -expression of a fresh, young, virginal soul, so much did he perceive -gathered there all the moral beauty and loyal tenderness of a fresh, -young, virginal heart. He bent over her, dominating her with his black, -calm, thoughtful eyes, sometimes crossed by a gleam of passion, with -the virile and noble expression of his brown, rather thin face, but -where all the characteristics were of energy; dominating her with soft, -low words, pronounced in that tone of sincerity that the more simple -womanly ear appreciates and understands. However, if the man was deeply -charmed and subjugated by her who was beside him, he was an expert -in hiding from the world what he was experiencing; hence his face -disclosed nothing, while she, as she looked at him and listened to him, -appeared in her silence, even in her immobility and perfect composure, -to be taken and conquered. At last, carried on by a flow of people that -pressed and drove them, they managed to enter the majestic ballroom -together. - -Round the walls there was a triple row of ladies seated, looking -on and criticising. The seats were set very close together and the -women were elbow to elbow and shoulder to shoulder, and among them, -behind, were the men very close together, scarcely seated on a corner -of their chairs, or standing and occupying the least space possible, -hidden behind skirts which spread themselves, showing only their heads -between two ladies' shoulders, bending on one side to talk to the lady -they were beside, while the ladies raised their heads with a gentle -movement, smiling and showing white teeth, occasionally raising their -fans to the height of their lips, as if to hide from strangers their -smiles, to show them only to him who was beside them. At the back of -the room were eight or ten sets of men and women who had found no -seats, but who kept close to each other in couples, waiting patiently -to find a seat or to dance together. In the middle of the room, in a -broad vortex that grazed those who were seated around, that made those -who were on foot draw back from its whirl, in a broad vortex that grew -longer according as it followed the longer walls of the room or grew -denser along the shorter sides, in a vortex, now soft, now rapid, -now denser and now thinner, many men and women were dancing, with a -revolving of white dresses and black suits, while the triple hedge -around alternated with black and white. Blond heads with delicate faces -and blue eyes, a little bent as if to follow the music, revolved now -softly, now quickly; gentle feminine figures in the whiteness of gauze -and the brightness of silken girdle, revolved amidst the clouds of -white skirts that wrapped themselves round their slender persons. The -faces of the men--some young and others not so young--drew nearer to -those of their partners in the musical rhythm, as strong or graceful -arms upheld them in a firm embrace: a male hand pressed a little -white-gloved hand in support. The heads of the English girls, adorned -with flowers, were sedate, and sedate were their rosy faces, while -their figures as they danced preserved a chaste appearance, as if the -pleasures of the dance were nothing to them. On the, for the most part, -clean-shaven faces of their partners a perfect correctness was to be -noted. And all those blond heads of the women and clean-shaven faces of -the men, the hundred or two hundred couples, of cavalier and lady, of -girl with bright eyes, and youth with large mouth and perfect teeth, -as they stood or sat down, danced or rested, seemed to have silently -sworn never to separate that night, and this with the most perfect -naturalness. - -In drawing-rooms and sitting-rooms mothers, aunts, and relations were -reading papers they had already read, or were playing at bridge, -while many of them slumbered with eyes open, blinking from boredom -and weariness; but none of them were troubling about their daughters -and nieces. The young women and girls, the demoiselles of thirty, and -the scraggy old maids touching forty, in white dresses, with hair -curled in front and ribbon round the neck, from the moment the ball -began were accompanied by lads and youths or older men with whom they -were flirting. They did nothing but chat with, smile, or look at -their flirt, or dance with him or another flirt, in perfect liberty -and composure, each couple to themselves, without troubling about the -flirting of their neighbours, nor did their neighbours seem to be aware -of theirs. They were amusing themselves with that English tranquillity -that is so astonishing, because it resembles boredom--the couples were -pleased with each other, but with a gentle seriousness in acts and -words and an occasional fleeting smile. Perhaps they were in love with -each other, as many people love each other in other countries, that is -to say with secret ardour; but so secret was it that nothing escaped -thereof, showing instead a serenity that seems genuine, and perhaps is, -and though they experience love's tumult in the depths of the soul, -they have the strength to control that tumult. - -More impulsive and impetuous, the actions of the American girls with -their admirers and flirts were livelier, their words deeper and their -laughter more frank. A keener life palpitated in their eyes full of -gaiety, in their nostrils which seemed desirous of inhaling every -perfume and in their parted lips. They shook their heads of dark hair, -whose waves were peculiarly lowered over the forehead, and their -actions were coquettish as they offered their ball programmes, opened -their fans, or took their partner's arm. In their dancing there was no -stiffness of movement, and no angles. They danced to perfection after -much practice in their own country, with a frank pleasure that was -expressed in their glance and laughter, and a ready grace and freedom -that was a little superb. To their suitors and flirts they imparted -an almost Southern _brio_, and a flow of youth and love emanated from -them, compared with the coldness and reserve of the English couples. - -Thirty or forty couples whirled round to the tune of the "Boston" -waltz, and the slender feet of the American girls, shod in satin and -transparent stockings, appeared and disappeared amid the flowing lace -petticoats, while their partners and their flirts smiled at them in -manifest pleasure that nothing could conceal. Amidst the somewhat -baptismal cambric dresses, with their heavenly bows, pink and yellow, -of the three English sisters, Evelyn, Rosamond, and Ellen Forbes, -passed Miss Katherine Breadley, the American in the Empire gown, so -disturbing in its too audacious lines and so seductive, as well, on -the arm of her French flirt, the Comte de Roy, the youth of a great -princely house, whom she smilingly called Monseigneur. By the Misses -Atwel, the little English girls dressed in white, on whose heads were -withering wreaths of myosotis, passed in dancing Miss Betty Finch, -the enchanting modern Grecian of Fifth Avenue, in _crêpe de Chine_, -smiling at the Vicomte de Lynen, her Belgian flirt and partner. There -crossed the room without dancing, but with the authority of _un vieux -garçon_ who has toured the world and known the whole of society, Miss -Ellis Robinson, accompanied step for step by her Italian flirt, Don -Carlo Torriani, who has sworn to make her renounce celibacy; and the -enormous solitaires of the American woman shone in curious contrast -with the little gold crosses of the English girls. But in Britannic -form, in American, in European, in every form, only flirtation governed -and dominated, enveloped and transformed, that dance at the "Kulm" on -that summer evening. Lia Norescu, the exquisite creature in her blue -dress, the flower of beauty, surrounded by her court, having found -other courtiers there, passed from one to another, dancing like a sylph -on the meadows almost without touching ground, with her light feet -shod in pale blue. She danced in the middle of the room, the better to -be seen, the better to be admired, and intoxicated her cavaliers with -her smile, one after the other of whom she dismissed but who returned -to her subdued, and whom she took back in a most capricious game of -flirtation. The Comtesse de Brialmont, as she danced with the Count of -Seville, a Spaniard, who was said to be the nephew of an ex-queen, a -morganatic nephew, whom she had seized from a friend of hers, bit her -lips as she almost dragged her partner along in the "Boston." Suddenly -even Eva Delma, enormous, like a great Caryatid, sallied forth to -dance with a graceful youth whom she devoured with her eyes. English -flirts, American flirts, European flirts, caprice, light love, love, -passion, fair heads and brown heads, chaste gowns and audacious gowns, -hands interlaced and shoulders too near, tender smiles and intoxicating -glances, beauty of innocence and conscious beauty--how everything -exhaled, emanated, and spread in the air, penetrating senses and hearts -that night in the ball at the "Kulm"! Suddenly a couple appeared in -the middle of the room, and a large circle was reverently made. They -were Mrs. and Mr. Arnold, both seventy, who had been married for forty -years. She, with her completely white hair and rosy face, was most -attractive; he was less white, but more robust and red in the face. -For forty years these two people had never left each other, and they -had come to St. Moritz from time immemorial. They had been guests at -the "Kulm" ever since its foundation. Every year they suddenly sallied -forth to dance, she composed and serene, he elegant in his strength. -And Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, in their flirtation of ten lustres, seemed -to be the symbol of all the flirtation of which air, light, flowers, -women and men were formed and transformed that night of the ball at -the "Kulm." Smiles and discreet English applause greeted the couple; -the Americans, laughing, applauded more loudly, but few of the other -nations did so. And around the two almost a hundred couples began to -dance, amongst whom were Lilian Temple and Lucio Sabini. - -Lilian danced well, but with some stiffness, as if through reserve she -were unwilling to yield herself to the too brilliant tunes to which -the dancing couples whirled ever more gaily, as if unwilling to yield -to the too soft harmonies that seemed to strike with an almost amorous -languor those who were dancing. Erect like a light stalk, hardly -supported at the waist by Lucio's arm, Lilian Temple turned her head a -little on one side, as if unwilling to meet her partner's gaze. Lucio -Sabini danced to perfection, with that sense of musical rhythm which -belongs to all Italians, and with a virile grace that emanated from -every act of his; and he fixed his eyes on his lady's face, while he -impressed on her, with an arm that scarcely guided her, a rapid or -a softer movement. At first surprised and then annoyed to find her -without response, and without a tremor, in a dance that he rendered -ever more enticing, amongst the crowd of women and men who were nearly -all transported, not only by the enjoyment of the dance, but by a more -intimate and more secret joy, he suddenly said to her in the rather -rough voice of his moments of ardour, which always appeared in contrast -to his feelings: - -"Does dancing bore you, Miss Temple?" - -"No, Signor," she murmured smilingly, "on the contrary, I am very fond -of it." - -"Then you don't care about dancing with me?" he suggested, even more -roughly. - -"Why do you think that?" she asked, blushing a little, lowering her -eyes, with a veil of sadness in her voice. - -"I don't know," he replied vaguely, "I don't know; I thought so." - -They turned more quickly; he raised her as if he wished to make her -fly, and she, even more lightly, scarcely seemed to touch the ground; a -fine smile parted her rosy lips, trembling a little at having to dance -so fast, and for an instant her deep blue eyes, pure and tender, fixed -themselves on the brown, thoughtful eyes of Lucio Sabini. It was only a -fleeting smile, the glance of an instant, but, disturbed and moved, he -asked her: - -"Do you like dancing with me?" - -"Yes," she answered, very softly. - -She said nothing more. The graceful face recomposed itself into its -serenity, and the dance ceased. In silence he offered her his arm, -and without even asking her went towards the ballroom door, desirous -of leaving. But other couples had left for the corridor, some slowly, -others hurriedly, to look for a quiet corner. Lucio, accustomed to -command, hid his annoyance with the people he found everywhere; Lilian -followed him in silence, without questioning, allowing him to lead -her where he willed. In the middle of the corridor Miss May Ford -came towards them, as she left a small sitting-room. She was dressed -in black satin with a magnificent white lace scarf on her arm and a -jewelled flower in her sprinkled hair. She had a gentle but composedly -affectionate smile for Lilian. - -"The game is over, darling. It is late, I am retiring," she said, in a -quite English tone of simplicity. "Are you staying?" - -"I shall stay, dear," replied Lilian simply. - -"I expect you will stay till the end, darling?" - -"I expect so too," replied Lilian frankly. - -"Then good night, dear. Good night, Signor Sabini." Miss Ford withdrew -with that freedom and indifference which astonishes anyone who is not -English, and which, instead, is the expression of their respect for -other people's liberty and their own. And Lucio, pressing Lilian's arm -lightly beneath his own as they went towards the hall, said: - -"Now you are in my hands, Miss Temple." - -"Oh!" she exclaimed, frowning slightly and lowering her eyes. - -He stopped, corrected, a little confused, and recognised his mistake. - -"I have said something wrong, Miss Temple." - -She became silent; as it happens at times when one has an unpleasant -thought, and from politeness one does not wish to utter it. - -"I beg pardon, Miss Temple: I beg pardon frankly. I am thirty-five, but -sometimes I am a naughty boy." - -Still she was silent, and a little pale. - -"Tell me that you forgive me, Miss Temple: tell me that, I beg of you," -he exclaimed agitatedly. "You know I am a boy sometimes." - -She gave a friendly little nod of the head, but nothing more. And he -understood he could ask no more at that moment. They entered the hall; -but still there were people round all the little tables where during -the day tea was taken. Other couples were seated beneath the thick -clumps of green plants; others were further off towards the corners -of the immense crypt that reminded one of the monuments of Sesostres -and Cleopatra--everywhere a man and a woman. Lucio and Lilian gave a -long sweeping glance at the hall, the same glance. They had the same -singular expression of fraternal sympathy with the surroundings and -the people. They made the same mutual movement in turning and going -back to the corridor, seeking together, without saying so or confessing -it, a more secluded, solitary spot. After wandering in the corridor -for a little in silence, while from the ballroom the call of a very -lively two-step reached them, they entered one of the reading-rooms. -The hour was late: they only found an old lady there reading a review -with silver-rimmed glasses bent over her nose, and a tiny little lace -cap on her white hairs. An old gentleman in another corner was reading -the "Norddeutsche Zeitung." They neither turned nor raised their heads -when Lucio and Lilian entered very quietly and sat down far-away from -the two in a corner; she in an arm-chair of dark leather, he in another -which he drew much nearer to hers. And their words proceeded in almost -a whisper so as not to disturb the two old people who were reading. - -"Are you cross with me, Miss Temple?" he asked humbly. - -With her little hand she made a polite gesture that he should speak no -more of the matter. - -"Have you forgotten?" - -"I have forgotten." - -"Are you my friend?" - -She looked at him and made no reply. - -"As at first, I mean to say," he corrected himself. - -"Yes, as at first," she murmured thoughtfully. - -Lilian kept her slender hand on the arm of the chair. He watched the -old lady with the silver glasses and the old gentleman with the flowing -beard. They neither turned round nor saw: they were immersed in their -reading. Then he placed his hand on Lilian's. She did not withdraw it, -and he gave a sigh of joy. - -"You must be very indulgent and merciful to me, Miss Temple," he said, -with a rather sad accent. "Sometimes I seem wicked, sometimes--far too -often--I seem perverse." - -She looked at him with her beautiful, candid eyes. - -"It is the ancient man that arises, Miss Temple; a man who has suffered -and caused suffering," he proceeded sadly. "I need kindness and pity -so much to be a good, loyal man as I was once, as I should like to be -again." - -"Whatever are you saying?" she asked, marvelling, and a little -anxiously. - -"You have the salvation of my soul in your hands, Lilian," he said to -her, in so serious a tone that she could not think of being offended -because he had called her by her name so suddenly. - -More than ever anxiety disturbed the beautiful, soft, virginal face. - -"Do you laugh at this humble hope, Lilian? do you laugh at this immense -hope? Do you wish me to save myself to end by losing myself?" he -continued, in that serious, touching tone of his. - -"Who am I to do this?" Lilian asked, hesitating and trembling. - -"You are innocence," he replied, bowing as before an image, "and you -alone can save me." - -"How can I do that?" she stammered, tremblingly. - -"You know," he continued, with so ardent a glance that she felt herself -scorched by it, from her eyes to her palpitating heart. - -"Come," he murmured in her ear, "let us go and look at the summer night -outside." - -They rose quietly; the old lady was still absorbed in her review -reading through her silver-rimmed glasses, of which they had never -heard the pages turned, and the old gentleman was hidden behind his -large German newspaper, held by a stick like a paper banner. Neither of -them had been aware of the presence of the two lovers, or discreetly -had pretended not to be aware. As in a dream, with a far-away look in -her large blue eyes, Lilian Temple followed Lucio Sabini. Silently, -automatically they looked for her mantle and shawl, which were hanging -on a peg in a corner of the corridor. Lucio helped her to put on the -white woollen cloak, with the long sleeve-like wings prettily trimmed -with white fur. He settled the shawl on her head, made of an Eastern -fabric, in white gauze trimmed with silver spangles. Together they -directed themselves towards a deserted room near the hall, whose -balcony opened on to the large covered terrace, and large verandah with -pillars: the verandah that stretched along the main body of the Hôtel -Kulm, facing the lake. They did not exchange a single word, walking -slowly as if absorbed. Opening the window of the balcony behind them -and leaning over the balustrade, without moving they contemplated the -spectacle which in solitude and silence was beneath their dreamy eyes. - -The night was already late, a pungent cold, with breezes that seemed -like powerful, icy gasps crossed the silent Engadine country. The pure -night air was rendered quite white by the lofty brilliance of the moon, -suspended over the lake like a lamp in mid-sky. Meanwhile the mountains -around, far and near, were becoming obscure and gloomy with shadows, -and even higher and more majestic in the gloom those that the moon -did not touch and illuminate, while the opposite shores of the lake, -untouched by the moon's rays, grew gloomy; in the middle its waters, -touched by the moon, were scintillating. All the lake of St. Moritz, in -fact, seemed like a strange cup of peculiar liquid, black and fearsome -towards the deserted shores, beneath the shadow of the mountains, -brilliant as a cold, metallic liquid in the middle; a fantastic cup -containing intoxication and death on the cold summer night in the high -mountains. Like night and moon the silence was supreme and everything -seemed motionless. Up above a few scattered lights pointed the way from -the station to the baths, but no human shadow passed there. Down below -at the baths rarer and feebler light flickered now and then, if a too -impetuously cold breeze reached them. In an opaque, almost spiritual, -whiteness the eternal snow appeared high above, in the night, on -the strange Piz Languard; pure and spectral it appeared amidst the -deep folds of Monte Corvatsch, and pale as a phantom on the far-off -horizon between the two peaks of the Margna. Their souls trembling -with an immense sensibility, their hearts palpitating with an immense -tenderness, were struck, seized, and conquered by the majesty and -purity of things in the presence of the mountains that for centuries -have seen time and life pass away; in the presence of the motionless -glaciers that no sun's rays could dissolve, and the waters black as -shadows or white as the moon. Side by side, they felt their hearts -lifted above every little transient, paltry entanglement by so much -power, beauty, and nobility; they felt that their hearts were breaking -old bonds, and that the secret of their spirit was more intense, -profound, and overpowering. They felt that here was the master whom -nothing could any longer resist, and that no longer could they lie or -remain silent. Sweetly Lucio bent over her and sweetly he drew her to -him with a light fleeting action, as he brushed the fair hair on her -forehead with his lips. - -"_Amore mio!_" he cried in Italian. - -Lilian Temple became as white as her dress and veil, and white as the -eternal snow of the mountains. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -"Hoop-la!" cried Mabel Clarke joyously. And bending over the neck of -her yellow-dun horse she urged him to a trot; Vittorio Lante also -brought his horse, a powerful black, to a trot. The amazon and her -cavalier trotted side by side for some minutes in a cloud of dust. -Descending by the hill that separates the Dorf from the valley of -Samaden, going through the little shady, peaceful wood, grazing the -tall hedges, fragrant with aroma beneath the matutinal dew, Mabel -Clarke brought her horse to a walk and Vittorio Lante imitated her. -But when the American girl issued from the wood on to the high road, -where the broad valley of Samaden opens out, she perceived that the -two equipages, the large white brake and the victoria, containing -the rest of the party had made great progress and were hardly to -be distinguished, being ahead beyond Celerina and on the way to -Pontresina; she felt a sudden rush of infantile impatience, and -inciting her horse and the cavalier who accompanied her, she wanted to -catch up and pass the two carriages. - -Dexterously firm in the saddle, in a dark blue habit which made her -seem taller and slimmer, and a most attractive dark blue doublet, -fastened by tiny buttons, with a white collar fastened by a big -gold pin, with a tea rose in her buttonhole, and a round straw hat, -surrounded by a blue veil that even restrained the thick, riotous, -chestnut hair, and floated behind in transparent blue waves, gloved in -yellow deer-skin, booted exquisitely, Mabel Clarke was more than ever -fascinating in her florid beauty, in her graceful vigour, and vibrant -youth. She did not look at the very bright, almost white, morning sky, -a sky of an ineffable softness. She took no heed of the fresh air, so -sweet to breathe; and she cared not for a sun that was very bland, -whose rays were bright without fierceness. She gave herself up, in -happy unconsciousness, to the joy of being young, healthy, beautiful, -of guiding and being guided by a strong horse, faithful and safe, -passing at a steady trot along the broad road, amidst the meadows -soft with dew, only turning every minute to see if her cavalier, Don -Vittorio Lante, were following closely. That perfect cavalier, who -was trotting with ease and youthful heedlessness, was quite close to -her, scarcely bending over his horse, smiling every time at the softly -blue-veiled face of Mabel Clarke, who smiled at him for a moment. In -the buttonhole of his riding-coat he had placed a tea rose; beneath the -brim of his soft grey felt hat a peaceful countenance revealed itself, -and an expression full of happiness that was reflected from his glance. -His surroundings, with their charm of air and light and perfume, did -not affect him; or perhaps they reached him through his dream. Twice -with a gesture of fastidiousness the amazon and her knight were forced -to rein in their horses, putting them to a walking pace, to pass the -little village of Cresta and the district of Celerina, in the narrow, -twisting, badly paved streets. But when once again they emerged on to -the high road and had passed the sounding wooden bridge over the Inn, -they yielded themselves to a strong trot, again inciting and urging -each other, always gaining more ground on the carriages. - -"Go! go! go!" exclaimed Mabel Clarke gutturally, in English. - -Already this gay chase was perceived from the carriages, and -many-coloured parasols and white handkerchiefs were to be seen waved -in greeting from the brake; the two ladies in the victoria turned -their heads, more tranquilly, as if to encourage the proud riders more -pacifically, who were advancing and suddenly reached and passed the -victoria, Mabel Clarke sending a kiss with the handle of her whip to -Mrs. Clarke and a nod to the other lady, Mrs. Gertrude Milner, Don -Vittorio Lante bowing and saluting with his whip. They overtook the -large brake, skirting it, the one on the right, the other on the left, -where, laughing and gesticulating, Ellen and Norah West, Susy Milner, -and Rachel Rodd jumped up to welcome them, as well as several young -men, who in French and English also welcomed them in pleasant, jolly -terms, while Mabel and Vittorio, on their part, laughing and calling -out a little, responded to all the enthusiasm. - -For a long portion of the road there was a war of chaff between the -brake and the two riders as they came up or passed from time to time, -an exchange of greetings and apostrophes in French and English, the -girls pronouncing Mabel's name a hundred times, and she shaking her -beautiful brown head as she smiled and laughed, her veil swelling -behind her in blue waves, while Vittorio Lante played his part in -regulating his black to Mabel's yellow-dun; and even he was amused by -the playful briskness of their chaff. - -Annie Clarke and Gertrude Milner in the victoria more quietly contented -themselves with a kindly wave of the hand or a nod of the head or an -indulgent little smile when Mabel and Vittorio passed them. Annie -Clarke was wearing a light grey dress of masculine cut and a round hat, -wrapped round with a light grey gauze veil; beneath her white collar on -the dark tie, knotted in man's fashion, a very simple pin was fixed, -an enormous shining black pearl, a unique jewel. Gertrude Milner was -austerely dressed in black, but on the white lace which formed the yoke -of her waistcoat she wore a single string of large pearls, which she -never took off. People said that Gertrude Milner even wore these pearls -at night when she slept. - -As they sped towards Pontresina neither the amazon nor her cavalier, -nor the young girls in the brake, nor the ladies in the victoria seemed -aware of how they were leaving behind them the meadows of Celerina, the -distances of Samaden, and the heights of the Muottas and the Corvatsch; -the profile of Pizalbris to the left, and to the right the curve of the -Fuorcla, the deep woods that alternate with arid glebe and stones and -rocks, and the white Flatzbach, that milky, tumultuous torrent which -comes from the white Bernina. They seemed not to see how in grandiose -and solemn line the two mountains opened, to show the gigantic Roseg -glacier in a bluish whiteness beneath the bland sun. Perhaps the fresh, -caressing air, the vault of heaven brighter than ever, and the soft -morning light vibrated within them as intimate and secret elements of -serenity, content, and subtle intoxication. But none of them wanted -to, or knew how to, take account of these hidden influences. They -enjoyed everything without analysing, and the strong desire of arriving -quickly at their goal possessed them. The horses of the riders, of the -brake, of the victoria, urged on by spur and whip, sped on to arrive -together more quickly than anyone had ever made the journey, with the -headstrong anxiety of always being first, which is one of the forces of -the American race. The maids and youths in the brake were annoyed at -every other vehicle, and tried to pass them, urging on the driver, the -robust Joe Wealther, the fiancé of Ellen West. Mabel and Vittorio were -annoyed with whatever they met in the way, an obstacle to their race; -and with smiling and mischievous eyes they exchanged, the American and -the Italian, their impetuous desire of ever speeding ahead, as they -disturbed groups of pedestrians, and scattered clouds of dust over -the other carriages. In the victoria Annie Clarke and Gertrude Milner, -the two peaceful and dignified matrons, grew weary of all the other -road-farers; they drew the rug over their knees in a distracted and -distant manner, appearing to be not the least aware of other wayfarers -on foot or in carriage. They grew proudly weary, desiring quietly, as -the others desired ardently, to reach the Morteratsch glacier quickly, -whither all were directed, and where they must see everything in the -shortest time and return at once to St. Moritz Dorf for luncheon at the -Palace Hotel. - -"The lunch is execrable here at the glacier restaurant," Annie Clarke -declared, with a knowing air. - -Still, in spite of all their American hurry, on entering that strange -district of Pontresina, studded with little wooden houses, in two rows, -as if from a child's box of toys, carriage and riders were forced to -go at a foot-pace. The row of carriages became much longer--hotel -omnibuses, barouches coming and going in every direction to and from -the Roseg, towards Samaden and the Bernina. Even denser were the people -on foot, who came and went, and grouped themselves at the doors of the -hotels with their hundred rooms, before the cafés and the confectionery -shops--a bizarre crowd, so different from that of St. Moritz. - -"_Très inélégante_, Pontresina," declared Gertrude Milner, in her turn, -with American gravity. - -However, they were forced to halt in the square before the Post Office, -like all the other carriages, to let the horses have a moment's -breather. The girls in the brake clamoured for the famous chocolate -truffle of the Pasticceria, _A Ma Compagne_, so their two cavaliers -jumped from the brake to go and fetch some; two others went for a -whisky and soda. Vittorio Lante patiently allowed his horse to drink at -a fountain near by. Mabel approached her mother's carriage and bent -over her as fresh as a flower. - -"Happy, Mabel?" asked the mother tranquilly, scarcely smiling. - -"Most happy, mammy, very happy!" exclaimed the daughter. - -Smiling, chatting, and exchanging chocolates and caramels, the girls -in the brake pretended that Joe Wealther should make the horses go -furiously on leaving Pontresina; but he imperturbably kept an even pace -in spite of their protests. Mabel and Vittorio again trotted briskly, -and even the peaceful victoria was transported at a trot. Beneath a -sky increasingly pale, as if a great pallor had been diffused beneath -the blue, with the light of the sun now veiled, the countryside was -profoundly changed. A broad, deserted valley, between two rows of -black, rocky mountains, opened out, and stretched monotonously and -sadly. Here and there a rare herb grew between the rocks with some big, -dusty, yellow flower. Stones were everywhere, from the little pebble -to the massive boulder, heaps of dry earth were crumbling, and little -mounds of black earth concealed the meagre course of a stream which now -and then reappeared, weak and tinged. So silent was the sadness of that -valley, and the death of everything lively and gracious, that behind -her blue veil Mabel's grey eyes grew disturbed and she felt the need of -breaking the sad silence that oppressed her, and of hearing the voice -of her cavalier. - -"Do you love all this, Lante?" - -They were alone, sufficiently far from the carriage; their horses close -together, head to head, relaxed their pace to the reins held slackly in -their hands. - -"I love you, Miss Clarke," he replied promptly, with an unwonted -impulse, more passionate than sentimental. - -"Do you even love me here, in this arid, gloomy place?" she asked, as -if another, a more intense amorous declaration were necessary for her, -to conquer, perhaps, the melancholy that weighed her down, or for some -other mysterious uncertainty of her soul. - -"Here, and everywhere, and always," he said seriously, as if he were -proclaiming a shining truth and pronouncing a sublime oath. - -"Ah!" she exclaimed simply, as if in a dream. - -For an instant, almost in a dream, Mabel bowed her head, as if she -wished to drive away every molesting care. She pulled sharply at her -horse's rein, to resume a more rapid pace. - -The carriages approached. Mabel and Vittorio distanced them again. The -man was silent and thoughtful, as if disturbed at what had bubbled -forth from his soul in a cry of sincerity. She was silent, watching him -now and then, as if to scrutinise his thoughts and feelings, because -the accent, which had been more earnest than she had previously heard, -had reached her. The horses trotted head to head. - -"Is this the Bernina road, Lante?" she asked in a low voice. - -"Yes, Miss Clarke," he murmured. - -"Then it is the road to Italy?" - -"Exactly, to Italy, Miss Clarke." - -There was an instant of silence. He leant his head towards her and said -to her in a voice she had never heard before: - -"Miss Clarke, shall we gallop to Italy? Together, alone, to Italy, Miss -Clarke?" - -She looked him frankly in the eyes, wishing to penetrate his heart and -soul. And he withstood well the woman's glance, directed sharply at him -in its desire to know the truth. A light laugh issued from her young -mouth. - -"Why do you laugh, Miss Clarke? It is not right to laugh so," he -exclaimed rather harshly. - -The laugh changed into such an affectionate and sincere smile that -without her speaking he understood. He added anxiously, but with happy -anxiety: - -"Would you come, Miss Clarke? Would you come?" - -"Perhaps I would come, Lante," she replied, again become serious. - -"Will you come?" - -"Perhaps I will come," she added gravely. - -Pale with joy, he stooped and suddenly clasped her hand and kissed it -in an act of devotion and dedication. Nothing more was said. The brake -full of girls and young men came up to them, who continued to chatter -and laugh, emitting guttural exclamations, to conquer the desolate -solemnity of the country through which they were passing, and up to -them came the victoria where Annie Clarke and Gertrude Milner had drawn -on their heavy fur capes, since the sky was now an immense pallor above -the great valley rough with boulders and rocks, and the sun, that had -become a spectral pallor over the naked, rude mountains, had made them -feel cold. Everyone in carriage and on horseback sighed with relief as, -making the last stretch of road, wooded like the avenue of an oasis -in such an austere landscape, they smiled at the foaming, sounding, -clamorous cascade that in a little gorge among the trees comes from -the Bernina and penetrates underground, and further off reappears a -torrent, and becomes lower down a river. After a few paces all had to -descend. - -A wooden bridge was the extreme limit for carriages and horses. To -reach the glacier it was necessary to go on foot. - -"Is it impossible _for all_ to drive?" asked Gertrude Milner, very -scandalised in her American dignity. - -"Impossible, dearest Gertrude," replied Annie Clarke, shaking her head. -"If you are tired we can stop at the restaurant." - -"The glacier is very badly managed," murmured Miss Milner, offended in -her habitual laziness and her American _amour-propre_. - -"Very badly," agreed Mrs. Clarke, who never liked walking. - -They began to walk slowly after the young people. The party walked -rapidly, in couples and groups, Mabel far in advance of all, lifting -over her arm the train of her riding habit, showing her slender little -feet and some of her leg. Vittorio was beside her, not leaving her for -a step. But in the frank sense of respect for another's liberty, which -is one of the noblest things in American social life, none of the party -bothered about them. Not even Mabel's mother seemed to be aware of the -very open love-making, even in its correct form. Ellen and Norah West's -mother had remained at Sils Maria, allowing her daughter, Ellen, to go -alone with her fiancé Joe Wealther. Mrs. Gertrude Milner worried not at -all about the flirtation of her daughter, Susy, with Pierre d'Alfort, -the witty and amiable young Frenchman, who fascinated the girl by the -originality of his _boutades_, and much less did she trouble herself -about the flirtations of her niece, Rachel Rodd, with the Vicomte de -Lynen, the Belgian, a troublesome and ever-deluded hunter after a big -dowry, who even here was making a false move, for Rachel Rodd was very -poor, with only a dowry of one hundred thousand dollars. At times the -couples met and formed large groups, whence issued jokes and laughter, -only to separate spontaneously and correctly. Only Mabel and Vittorio, -who had dismounted, started off at a brisk walk, as if they did not -wish to be overtaken; but no one followed hard on them, for they took -care to keep the distance, and no one called after them. Suddenly, -however, the party halted to look around. - -The Morteratsch valley opened out on two sides, on which the mountain -larches climb to a certain height, slender and brown, with supple -branches; higher up the sides rose even more naked and less green, -until quite high up they were delineated against the sky, to right -and left, in massy profiles of dark rock. In the middle distance and -the background, in gigantic, white, rugged, naked cliffs, in colossal -undulations, that had been immovable for centuries and for centuries -covered with snow, as hard as the rocks it hid, the glacier opened -out, arose, advanced, and took up all the horizon; it advanced like -an immense white wall, and then like an immense black wall, forward, -forward, as if it were walking towards the onlooker, towards the rapt, -ecstatic crowd in front--an immense peaked wall that seemed of rock but -was really of ice. Three majestic peaks stood above it: on the left the -Piz Bellavista, on the other side towards the left the Piz Morteratsch, -and finally, very lofty, fearsome, and white without a scar or rent, -the queen of mountains, the virgin of mountains--the Bernina. - -Here, round the little one-storeyed restaurant, with its tables spread -in the open air, some beneath an awning, round a kiosk, where post -cards and little souvenirs of the Morteratsch were on sale, a whole -squad of silent people were contemplating the glacier. Before it lay -a stretch of ground, covered with big and little rocks brought there -by the winter avalanches; amid the boulders ran a meandering torrent, -while to the right was a faintly traced little path among the rocks -which higher up, as it approached the great black wall of the glacier, -disappeared; and nothing but stones and water proceeded from the -glacier, where a gloomy grotto was hollowed out, which seemed like a -speck in the distance. - -"Why is the glacier so black in front?" Gertrude asked Annie, in a low -voice. - -"It is covered with rocks and earth," was the reply. - -"_Dommage_," murmured Gertrude in French. - -For some minutes the enchantment of the glacier remained over the crowd -that was admiring it, silent and astonished. Then figures began to -separate, attracted as by a magnet, and set out for the small path, -while other figures more in advance were already there, small and -diminishing, flitting from rock to rock--little black specks of beings -who were at the grotto or coming from it. The coming and going was -continuous; the men gave their hands to the ladies to make them walk -more safely, or preceded them to point out the best way, while the -lofty wall, all white in front, all black above, and finally at the -horizon white with reflections of metallic blue and gold, in altitudes -and precipices which seemed the monstrous waves of a sea petrified for -ages, caused the crowd of visitors to seem even more tiny and miserable. - -"We will stay here," said Annie Clarke to the party. - -"We will stay," approved Gertrude Milner. - -"_Au revoir, mama_," cried Mabel to her mother from afar, as she -approached the glacier, accompanied by Vittorio. - -"_Au revoir, au revoir_," exclaimed the young people of the party as -they left. - -Quietly seated at a restaurant table, beneath the awning, Annie Clarke -and Gertrude Milner took a cup of tea to warm themselves, watching, -without troubling, the figures of their daughters ever growing smaller, -as they proceeded over the sharp rocks, along the torrent, towards the -glacier. - -Around them at the tables some were taking tea, others were drinking -beer, and others writing on post cards. People arrived continuously -from the road behind the bridge where the carriages were halted, and -others arrived from the glacier. Everywhere nothing but German was to -be heard, and the very waitresses of the inn were fräulein who did not -understand a word of English or French. - -"Even here all are Germans," murmured Gertrude with a sneer, as she -sipped her tea. - -"And Jews! What a nuisance, dear," added the very Catholic Annie. - -Mabel and Vittorio had almost reached the goal. As they approached -the way became more dangerous amid the great rocks which had to be -jumped, and from which it was easy to slip. Mabel's high heels made -her hesitate and vacillate every moment. Frowning and anxious about -making a stupid fall, she ended by placing her two hands in Vittorio's, -although at first she had refused any support; then in three leaps she -reached the opening of the ice grotto with him. He made her climb the -last boulder, lifting her like a child, as he deposited her on a mound -of earth, and so gracefully that she smiled at him adorably to thank -him. The immense wall stood over their heads; through two enormous -clefts they perceived its fearsome height and profundity. The enormous -walls were dripping icy water, and drops of icy water fell from the -arch of the cleft, whence was formed the strange grotto. Near at hand, -beneath a colossal and sinuous streak of ice, which was the tail of the -glacier, the torrent bubbled forth mysteriously and sped away. They -penetrated beneath the white arch that overwhelmed them, amid the ice -that surrounded them with a cold embrace; the gelid drops fell on their -cheeks and foreheads. Vittorio felt Mabel's hand trembling a little as -it sought his. - -"Would you rather go out?" he asked, guessing her secret wish. - -"I would rather," she replied at once. - -They completed the short circuit of the grotto and left. She was pale -as if she breathed with difficulty under the immense wall; and she -breathed deeply, in fact, when once again she was on rocks in the open -air. She perceived a little road that climbed among the boulders to the -right. - -"Come," she said, approaching Vittorio. - -It was not an easy or short ascent for her cavalier to a promontory -which arose to the side; and they still met people who were descending, -chatting harshly in German, while further off the rest of the party -followed them. Turning suddenly, they perceived that they had climbed -higher than the wall of the glacier, and that it was spreading before -their eyes from top to bottom in an immeasurable breadth, bounded -on the right by two great moraines of black rocks, all white in -the middle, and at the back climbing, heaping, sinking, rugged and -profound, towards the two lofty peaks of Bellavista and Morteratsch, -towards the beautiful and virginal Bernina, the mistress of the -mountains. They sat down on a large rock, and both were seized and -conquered by the solemn, majestic, and terrible spectacle. They were -alone; before them was the potent immensity of things that had lasted -for ages and would last through the ages. - -Suddenly Mabel Clarke turned to Vittorio Lante and asked him in a -clear, precise voice: - -"You really are free, Lante?" - -He looked into the quiet eyes that questioned him and replied sincerely: - -"Yes, I am free, Miss Clarke." - -Mabel still contemplated for a moment the whiteness of the far-away ice -and the purity of the neighbouring snow; her accent was again firm and -fierce as she asked: - -"You are poor, are you not, Lante?" - -There rose before the eyes of the Italian gentleman the more than ever -impressing spectacle that elevates souls and exalts them to supreme -truth. Beside him was a creature of truth and beauty. From his ardent -heart there burst forth a pure flame of truth. Courageously, without -shame and with simplicity, he declared: - -"I am very poor, Miss Clarke." - -Mabel smiled as never before, and her hand brushed Vittorio's in a -grateful, loyal, pure caress. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -"Miss James and I prefer to drive and wait for you at Sils Maria," -quietly said Miss Ford to Lucio and Lilian. - -The girl remained impassive; Lucio Sabini bowed, in token of consent. -The carriage which an hour ago had brought all four to the hill of the -Maloja and had waited for them there--as after having traversed the -highway and the hill paths they reached on foot the top of the great -wall of a peak which divides the Grissons from the Val Bregaglia, to -the lofty gallery of rocks covered with moss and yellow marguerites, -whence the gaze is directed down below towards Italy--and which was -to bring them on the return road, first to Sils Maria and then to St. -Moritz, was drawn up at a few paces from the Kursaal Maloja. Suddenly -turning from that strange gallery whence, now and then exchanging a -fleeting glance, Lucio Sabini and Lilian Temple had both gazed at the -road to Italy, and while they drew near the vast lake which stretches -from the Maloja to Sils, Lucio had proposed crossing the lake by boat -as far as Sils Maria, while the empty carriage should go on and wait -for them there. Lilian, without speaking, blushed one of those blushes -of joy that mounted in a wave of emotion from her neck right to the -roots of her fair hair. Miss Ford, after having exchanged three or four -words in English with her companion, had quietly announced her desire -to go in the carriage with her, leaving the boat trip to Lilian and -Lucio. - -While he accompanied the two old maids to the carriage, he was once -again astonished in the back of his mind at the ever-increasing -freedom with which Miss May Ford, who was Lilian's guardian and friend, -often, very often, left the girl alone with him. Now and then, with -his Italian mind accustomed through heredity and tradition to keep -women, and especially girls, under a rigorous surveillance; accustomed -to consider woman in general as a prisoner who strives constantly -to escape and around whom iron chains must be multiplied, a strange -impression struck him when he discovered that Miss Ford entrusted -Lilian Temple to him and Lilian trusted him, when their love-making -had now become so marked that in no way was it possible to conceal it, -and he very nearly felt irritated at Miss Ford's desertion of Lilian -and very nearly sneered at the perfect confidence Lilian had in him. -A flood of evil thoughts was poisoning him. But afterwards he thought -of the admirable rectitude of the English character, which, incapable -of failing, does not believe that another can fail; he thought of -the profound respect that all Englishmen have for women, above all -for their sweethearts and fiancées; he thought of the respect that -all the English have, and have taught the Americans to have, for the -liberty of others; and he felt vulgar sentiments to be dissolved in -his spirit, and ugly thoughts and mean considerations. He experienced -instead the secret emotion of a man who feels himself esteemed and -loved. Moreover, a singular tenderness invaded him, as he guessed the -truth; that Miss Ford, aware of their love-making, wished to provide -them, in perfect good faith and generosity, with a means of getting a -better understanding, in a solitude that had for witnesses the sky, the -mountains, the lakes and meadows. - -"At Sils Maria, then," he said, with a gracious bow as he closed the -door, giving Miss Ford a grateful look. - -"In front of the Hôtel Edelweiss," she replied, giving him and Lilian a -friendly nod. - -They watched the carriage depart and slowly proceeded towards the lake. - -"Miss Ford is very fond of you, Lilian," he said, in a tender voice. - -"Yes," she answered, without further remark. - -"And I believe you are very fond of her." - -"Yes," she replied. - -He restrained a little movement of impatience. The imperturbability, -the silence, and the sober replies of Lilian Temple at certain moments -irritated him; the composure of the beautiful face seemed indifference -to him; the scarcity and the moderation of her words seemed to him -coldness and her silence lack of feeling. Then he would speak to her -in a sharp voice and say violent and sarcastic things as if to startle -her. An expression of wonderment and pain on Lilian's face would calm -him and make him realise the truth, that he was in the presence of a -different soul, a creature of another race and another land, and a -profoundly different heart. - -"At any rate you will like to sail on the beautiful lake? Or does -nothing matter to you, Lilian?" he said to her, with a mocking smile -and in an irritated tone. - -"Of course it matters to me," she murmured, looking at him with her -dear, blue eyes, rather sorrowfully. - -"Forgive me," he said at once, softening again. "I am very exacting, I -know, but sometimes you are so English, dear child." - -"I thought," she said, with a mischievous little smile, "that English -women were not displeasing to you." - -"I adore them!" he exclaimed, in a sudden transport. - -They sat in the stern of the rather large boat, which was rowed by -two men. The boats were Italian and came from the Lake of Como, being -transported up there every year to the lakes of Sils and St. Moritz, -climbing from Chiavenna on the large carts that ascend there every -day at the beginning of the season, and are re-transported below in -the middle of September. The rowers were Italians--_Comaschi_. A -white awning protected the boat from the sun. For some time while the -_Comaschi_ rowed, cleaving the quiet waters, Lilian and Lucio were -silent, letting themselves go to the train of their slow passage across -the lake and the sequence of their intimate thoughts. Lucio especially -liked to be quiet beside Lilian. When he was with her--and in the week -after the ball at the "Kulm" he had seen her every day for two or three -hours--a profound sense of sweetness kept him silent: the Italian words -which should have told of his flame remained suspended on his lips; -the impetuousness of his love became placated in the presence of that -pure young beauty and in the complete sentimental dedication which -he recognised in Lilian. He was gladly silent. Moreover, an intimate -terror of saying too much consumed him, of expressing too much, of -showing too much, what manner of thing was the sudden transport of -love that agitated him. He feared by pronouncing definite words to -make Lilian understand and himself understand, alas, how he was seized -and conquered beyond caprice, beyond flirting and love-making: he -feared lest she should be deeply discouraged, and he himself feared -to be discouraged by a revelation that he preferred to leave latent -and concealed. Instead an infinite sweetness came upon him in Lilian's -company, in solitude and in silence. Her presence filled him with a -tenderness that surpassed every other feeling: he understood in those -moments how he would have liked to have invoked the passing of life -thus beside her, and how she carried in her hands and heart and eyes, -in every act of her person, the truest and most lovable gifts of -existence. The boat proceeded quietly across the limpid waters shining -in the sun, and both continued to dream their soft and quiet dream. -Lilian gently clasped a bunch of Alpine flowers which she placed upon -her knees, on her white cambric dress. - -"Lilian, have you seen the Val Bregaglia, and amidst the light, white -clouds Italy, Lilian?" he asked her softly, as if in a dream, placing a -particular stress of sweetness as he pronounced and repeated her name. - -"I have seen it," she replied softly. - -"Do you love Italy, Lilian?" - -"Of course," she replied. - -Nothing more. But he felt how much that soul and heart were his, even -in the modesty and moderation of her words, even in her reserved -attitude and pure actions. - -"There is another spot where my beautiful country can be seen," he -added; "a spot loftier and more austere." - -"Where?" - -"At the Bernina pass, Lilian." - -"Is it far?" - -"Two hours and a half by carriage, perhaps three from St. Moritz. I -think you have never been up there." - -"No, never." - -"Will you go there with me?" - -"Yes," she replied at once. - -"We will go, we will go," he exclaimed, a little disturbed with joy. -"Up there there is a solitary height: one must go there on foot after -leaving the carriage. But one sees the Val di Poschiaro--beautiful -Italy!" - -"We will go," she again consented. - -A boat came towards them, also propelled by two rowers, proceeding, -however, very slowly. A woman was within, alone, with a delicate, pale -face, a rosy mouth slightly livid, and two deep blue, velvety eyes. She -was Else von Landau, who was enjoying in silence and solitude the air, -the light, and the trees, whatever was healthy and pure and refreshing. -With her gloved hands crossed over her knees, and her veil raised above -her hat, she appeared collected and serene. With calm eyes she followed -the boat with the two lovers. - -"She is ill, poor thing!" murmured Lucio Sabini. - -"But she will get better," added Lilian, "if she remains here for the -winter." - -"How do you know that?" - -"The doctors say so, people say so. One gets better here in the winter. -How beautiful it must be here beneath the snow," she murmured, as if to -herself. - -"Would you come here? Would you pass a winter here, Lilian? You are not -ill, Lilian!" - -"Of course I am not ill," she said slowly. "But I should prefer to be -here rather than in England. There is sun here." - -"But our country is Italy, the land of sun!" exclaimed Lucio Sabini. - -"That is true," she said, looking at him, expecting another speech. - -But he added nothing more. After a moment he resumed. - -"Aren't you happy, Lilian, in England?" And he scrutinised her face -keenly. - -"Who told you that? My father is so good!" she exclaimed, with unwonted -vivacity. - -"You love him, and he loves you?" - -"Yes; I love him, and naturally he loves me." - -"And your stepmother: is she good?" - -She was silent for a moment, seeing that he knew her family history, -but she quickly resumed: - -"My stepmother is good, too." - -"But you cannot understand her, I believe." - -"That is not her fault," she replied, with some vehemence. - -"Then it is yours?" - -"Not that either. It is no one's fault. It is so." - -Lucio was immensely struck by her directness of character and -generosity. He knew how unhappy Lilian Temple was in her family and how -the father, too weak to defend and protect her, preferred to give her -plenty of money and a trusty companion in Miss Ford, to let her travel -as long as possible. - -"You have a very beautiful soul, Lilian," he said, with deep emphasis. - -She made no reply; her eyes were veiled with tears. - -"You deserve to be happy, dear." - -"I am happy," she said, looking at him and smiling amidst her tears. - -He grew pale with love, as their row towards Sils Maria, where the -two old maids were waiting for them, ended in a gentle movement, that -almost seemed a gliding upon the waters. Both more moved than at any -other time, more touched in the deepest essence of their souls, by -that beautiful hour, by the landscape of peace and grandeur, by the -words they had pronounced, by those they had not said, they experienced -in every glance they exchanged, in every rare accent and gesture, an -emotion they strove in vain to calm. Seated beside her, his head a -little bent towards her, Lucio Sabini said nothing, but everything -within him expressed the immense sympathy which bound him to the dear -creature, so blond, so rosy, in her white dress beneath the white veil -of her white hat: everything within him showed that the fascination of -that beauty, of that candour, of that purity had subjugated him. Seated -beside him, a figure of indefinable grace, there was in her eyes and -smile that abandonment of fresh hearts, that abandonment which is so -touching, because it is that of a heart which gives everything blindly -for life and death. They pursued their gentle voyage to the green -peninsula of Sils, and only a few sentences of the deepest tenderness -now and then interrupted it with alternate silences. - -"You will always dress in white, Lilian?" - -"If it pleases you." - -And then: - -"You are only twenty, dear?" - -"Yes, twenty. And you are thirty-five, you told me?" - -"So old, Lilian!" - -"It doesn't matter: it doesn't matter!" - -Again: - -"Shall I see you this evening, Lilian?" - -"Yes, of course." - -"And to-morrow?" - -"To-morrow, too." - -"Always, then, Lilian? Always?" - -"Always." - -Theirs was a sweetness even too intense, and a languor even more -overwhelming; while Lilian's eyes of periwinkle-blue were far-away, and -a little trembling Lucio's lips. A dull grating on the ground and a -rush of water where the boat had grounded at Sils: rising, they again -repeated the grand word, as if in a dream. - -"Always! Always!" - -They went through the meadows of thick grass, along the narrow canal -that unites, as it cuts a long strip of earth, the large lake of Sils -with the smaller lake of Silvaplana; they walked like somnambulists -immersed in a dream of fervid youth and palpitating exhilaration; they -went hand in hand with rapid steps to join the two ladies who were -waiting for them up there beyond the bridge; towards the large, green -wood before the charming, bright houses of Sils Maria, houses all -adorned with galleries, balconies, and little windows. They went with -steps ever more rapid, because the very pale sun was setting in too -clear a sky, and for the first time they observed with distracted and -wandering eyes the pallor of sun and sky. - -Miss May Ford and Miss Clara James were seated in the outside, covered -vestibule of the Hôtel Edelweiss which was all adorned with flowers; -they were seated at a table and were taking tea placidly and waiting. -Two men were with them; one was Massimo Granata, the Italian, one of -the oldest lovers of the mountains and sojourners in the Engadine, -with his face of an old child, that is rickety and ill, where above -the yellowishness of the rugged skin, above the scanty, colourless -beard and bony cheek-bones, only the eyes had a ray of divine goodness, -while his awkward body, badly dressed in a coarse grey mountain suit, -abandoned itself on a seat as if disjointed, while his knotted, -shrunken hands were sorting bunches of fresh edelweiss on a table and -making nosegays of them; the other was Paul Léon, an Italian by origin, -whose family must have been called Leone at Perugia, whence he came, -but which had been changed into Léon after living thirty or forty years -in France--Paul Léon, the French poet, much discussed and much admired -for his lofty genius, his pride, and his wit, now of a cutting irony, -now benevolent. At Sils Maria they found Miss May Ford, with a tender -and sensible soul beneath a cold appearance, and Miss Clara James, the -daughter of England's greatest spiritualist, an illustrious philosopher -and poet who had died three years previously, but who was not dead to -his daughter, since she spoke with him every night or believed she -spoke with him, and she had remained an old maid so as to be able to -have communication with the world of spirits; Massimo Granata, who -every day made long walks, had climbed the most impenetrable paths and -scrambled up the steepest rocks, solely through this invincible love -of his of the mountains and his loving quest of mountain flowers; and -Paul Léon, the friend of Miss James, who despised the follies of the -sojourners at St. Moritz Bad and scoffed at the cosmopolitans of the -"Palace" and the "Kulm," and who in his poetic pride lodged in a little -inn at Sils Maria and every day went to watch the little window where -Friedrich Nietzsche had worked for fourteen springs and summers in a -very modest furnished house, and in a very modest room of that house, -Paul Léon who loved the country and that district where he had come for -years, every year withdrawing from the advance of the ever-invading -crowd from district to district in the search for solitude, who loved -Massimo Granata as an ideal type of moral beauty, and admired Miss -James for her noble, daughterly hallucination. - -The circle grew larger when Lilian and Lucio arrived; the greetings -were sympathetic, for all knew and understood. May Ford offered tea, -as was natural, to Lucio, who to please her accepted, and to Lilian, -who refused sweetly. Massimo Granata offered Lilian a large nosegay -of edelweiss, gathered two hours ago not far from the glacier of -Fexthal, gathered with his fleshless, rickety hands that had such -soft gestures, as he touched the flowers gathered after a four hours' -walk to "Edelweisshalde." Lilian pressed and immersed her rather too -heated face in those delicate, glacial flowers, like stars, as if to -seek there a refuge for her ardour. And scoffing, gracious, efficient -Paul Léon, who had been Lucio Sabini's friend for years, incited him -to fence in a dialogue and a diatribe against all the people who come -to live a life _à outrance_ in a land of simplicity and peace, against -the snobs who nowadays penetrated everywhere, who climbed the virgin -heights and disturbed the sky and earth and waters of the Engadine. -Paul Léon, a little mocking, a little serious, took Lucio Sabini, since -he was fashionable, a born aristocrat, and because of the surroundings -in which he lived, and as an annual frequenter of all the great -cosmopolitan meeting-places, for a representative of all that world -_écœurant, dégôutant, oui, dégôutant--il n'y a pas d'autre mot_. To -his amazement Lucio Sabini was silent and smiled, without defending -that society of fictitious and real millionaires, of real Princes and -Serene Highnesses, whose kingdoms are as large as kerchiefs, of false -beautiful women, of false rich women--everything false, everything -artificial, everything sham up there in a land of truth and purity. -Lucio, as if absorbed, made no replies. At a certain point when Paul -Léon cursed, with a sarcastic and refined curse, the lie of those -people, whose impetuous and atrocious motto was, _Evviva La Vita_, -Lucio started and replied simply: - -"_Vous avez raison, mon ami._" - -Paul Léon gave a fleeting glance at Lilian Temple and smiled. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -On the golf links that extend from the extremity of the Hôtel Kulm, -climbing and descending the whole of the hill of Charnadüras, and -which are so green that not even the players' feet have succeeded -in making them less green, early in the afternoon the slow, strange -parties of golfers kept appearing, to the wonderment of bystanders who -did not understand the game, as they leaned over the little hurdles -and watched with staring eyes which at last became tired and annoyed -at understanding nothing. They kept appearing, to the surprise of -wayfarers who stopped a moment to see a man in white shirt-sleeves -or in a bright flannel waistcoat with long sleeves, advancing along -the course, sometimes directly, sometimes obliquely, holding his -club in his hand, stopping as he brandished it in an aimless blow, -and then resuming his way, followed always by a boy who carried, by -a shoulder-strap, a leather bag, which seemed like a pagan quiver; a -silent, patient boy, who regulated each step to that of the player, -who crouched sometimes as he did, and finally vanished in his wake. -Continuously from the green beneath the great tent of the Golf Club, -where the inexpert remained to take lessons under the direction of -two or three professionals, the players started whither the game and -their more or less skill led them, and their rough outlines grew less -and less in the far distance, till at times the links, or the horizon, -became perfectly deserted, as if no players existed, as if they had -been dissolved by the air or swallowed by the earth. The spectators -who had come, as if on some doubtful invitation, to see a game of golf, -saw the man and woman disappear without understanding the reason, -and shrugging their shoulders they departed, laughing at and mocking -golfers, particularly the Germans, who laughed among themselves and -with their wives; more especially because it was an English game -the Germans found it idiotic, _itiote_, as they pronounced it, when -they wished to talk French. And the wayfarers, after a minute of -contemplation and waiting, went again on their way, especially as they -read on certain wooden posts the notice: "_Prenez garde aux balles du -golf._" Balls? Where were the balls? How? The golfers, when they made -a stroke, seemed to be assailing the air as if with a sudden movement -of madness, and afterwards they looked like solitary vagabonds who were -walking without a fixed goal, in spite of the respectful and silent -companionship, at ten paces distance, of the urchin laden with the bag -of clubs. - -Those who played in the early afternoon were truly solitary lovers -of that curious sport which obliges one to walk much in silence, in -a sustained and concentrated attention, in the open country, in a -peculiar search for a ball and one's opponent, in a broad horizon, -neither feeling heat nor cold, exercising not only the muscles, -but even a little--really a little--the intellect. They were great -solitaries, who fled from society because they frequented her too much -at other times of their day; great solitaries who loved contact with -the open air and fields and woods, in contrast with the confined, heavy -life they were forced to lead elsewhere; great solitaries who for a -secret reason, sad, perhaps, or tragic, but secret and dissembled, now -hated man and woman; great solitaries whose age and experience had -divorced them from games of love, of vanity, and perhaps of ambition. -In fact, the early golfers were the real, keen golfers, and for the -most part middle-aged men and women. Among such were the Comte de -Buchner, an Austrian diplomat, a pupil of Metternich, who perceived -but did not wish to confess the end of the diplomatic legend, the end -of a policy made by ambassadors, a septuagenarian who already felt -himself dead amongst his ancestors; the Baron de Loewy, from London, of -the powerful Loewy bank, who sometimes held in his hand the whole of -European finance, a handsome, robust man with white moustaches, full of -spirit, who passed hours out of doors at golf, and who came there to -find equilibrium for his winter life as a great banker; Madame Lesnoy, -a woman of sixty-five, who had made her fortune thirty years ago, and -though _une grande bourgeoise_, had married her sons and daughters to -the greatest names in European heraldry, and who now had nothing else -to do but play golf by day and bridge by night; the Marquis de Cléan, -whose wife had been killed two years ago with her lover in an hotel at -Montreux, a story which tortured his life of worldly scepticism and -over which he dared not feign cynicism; the Contessa di Anagni, of the -best society of Rome, who had been loved by a King and had been unable -to fix the heart of the volatile sovereign; Max and Ludwig Freytag, for -whom Karl Ehbehard, the great doctor, had ordered this exercise, as -being excellent to stimulate their weakened temper; the Comtesse Fulvia -Gioia, who thus even better preserved her health and mature beauty, -like that of sappy, ripe fruit; and so many others who at two and three -o'clock deserted their rooms and hotels and directed themselves to the -links and shortly afterwards disappeared in every direction--great -solitaries, true golfers. - -Towards half-past four, in the meadow which skirts the high road from -the Dorf and extends beneath the terrace of the Golf Club House, in -that meadow which was almost like a stage, the players increased in -number, in couples and groups, not going far-away, always returning -to the meadow, where at that evening hour there was a pretence of -playing golf. It was a theatre whose pit was the Dorf high road with -its footpath and wall, behind which people who were passing stopped -to watch, whose big and little boxes were the big and little terraces -of the Golf Club, where tea was taken from half-past four to six. The -keen and serious players had been away for two hours and perhaps had -returned. The make-believe players at tea-time represented the comedy -of the game under the eyes of a hundred spectators, turning continually -to the terraces, greeting and smiling at a friend and beginning with -an important air to hit mightily at a golf-ball which never left the -ground, because they either missed it or gave it a laughable little hit. - -Not far-away, in the spacious tennis-courts, where from the 18th August -to the 24th the Engadine Cup was contested in the Tournament, games of -tennis, singles and doubles, proceeded at every hour, from lunch-time -till the evening. Truly, tennis was played everywhere, at every hour, -by hundreds of enthusiasts throughout the Bad; in front and behind the -hotels, and everywhere one went, in the beautiful broad roads of the -Bad, amongst the beautiful broad gardens of the Hôtel du Lac, around -the "Kurhaus," around the "Victoria," appeared courts with players of -both sexes, dressed in white, and the fatiguing exclamation was to -be heard--"Play!" But where this passion became delirious was down -below at the Tennis Tournament grounds near the "Kulm." Still, the -tennis-court, like the golf links, became a theatrical scene towards -half-past four in the afternoon. At that hour, on the left side of the -Hôtel Kulm, the tea-tables, already set and decorated with flowers, -were placed in the broad space which borders the courts. People began -to climb from the Bad and to arrive from the other hotels and villas of -the Dorf. Everywhere the crowd increased; some of the tables which had -been placed together held twenty or thirty persons. The usual German -element came and mingled with the great ladies and great snobs, their -imitators, attired curiously, wearing rough garments and dusty boots, -with a proud, mocking smile, as they talked loudly in German, and -forcibly occupied the best seats, brutally turning their shoulders to -the ladies, and sometimes smoking pipes. Play went on, but they were -show games of young maidens who wished to be seen and admired, of women -who affected the pose of sport after having tried so many poses. There -were games as of a theatrical performance played by actors, if we may -say so, for whom tennis was a pretext and an excuse for chatting and -talking at liberty, for isolating themselves, for donning a different -dress, for making acquaintances, and especially for showing themselves -to all the princesses, marchionesses, ladies, and serene highnesses. -That day in particular there was a game of great parade, because as -Katinka Orloff, a beautiful young Russian of twenty, elegant and -robust, the best player of the season, and champion of the Engadine for -two years in succession, was retiring after having played a great deal -in practice for the Tournament, an intermediary, an Austrian Baron, -came to tell her that Her Imperial and Royal Highness, the Archduchess -Maria Vittoria, desired to play with her, naturally only to learn, for -she was so much weaker. Being very tired, the Russian hesitated for a -moment, then she accepted. - -It was a great tennis rehearsal, and the tea-tables, with their -half-filled cups, were deserted by the ladies, and snobs who imitated -them. A crowd gathered round to watch Maria Vittoria, who at first -played slowly and cautiously, then more rapidly, her blood coursing -beneath her brownish, nobly pallid cheeks, her white skirt twisting -round the long slender feet, while Katinka Orloff, dexterous but -_distrait_, now and then allowed herself to be beaten, resuming the -lead for a moment, only to lose it again. With heightened colour and -a gleam in her dark, pensive eyes, the Archduchess of Austria exerted -herself amidst the complacent murmurs of admiration of the true ladies, -and male and female snobs, and with a happy little cry the game ended. -Politely Katinka Orloff, who knew the protocol, allowed herself to be -beaten. Proud and silent the Archduchess stretched out her hand to the -Orloff. - - * * * * * - -On mountains, houses, and lake, on golf links and tennis-court the -grey, purple twilight descended. The white dresses of the lady players -seemed to dissolve and become fantastic, and the dark clothes of the -men in the distance became shadows. The terrace of the Golf Club was -almost deserted, with tables overturned on every side and chairs in -disorder. In a corner, separated by a group of people who were just -about to depart, Mabel Clarke and Vittorio Lante were saying some -subdued words. Nor were they looking at the links which they had never -looked at. They troubled not about the company, which troubled not -about them. They were unaware of the twilight hour, and did not observe -the failing light around them. The sunset shadows descended upon the -tennis-court. Players put on their heavy, dark wraps over their whites, -stuffed their rackets into cases, and left, silent, tired, but content. -Not far-off, in the deserted square, Lucio Sabini and Lilian Temple -were taking leave of each other on the return from Sils Maria, without -speaking, eye to eye, and hand in hand. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -From the 2nd of August the Palace Hotel, which is the supremely -characteristic, fashionable, and snobbish hotel of the whole Engadine -in general, and the two St. Moritzes in particular (_le Palace_, as the -French said, with an accent of reverence as if they were mentioning -Olympus, _the Peles_, as the English said rapidly and simply, _the -Pelesh_, as the American ladies pronounced it, with rich accent), was -filled with its many-souled, multiform, and original _clientèle_, and -was not failing its great tradition, that of providing everybody, great -or small, cause for gossiping, or mere tittle-tattle. Certainly on -some days the second cause, the little one, was lacking, and on others -the tittle-tattle; but, nevertheless, the tradition was maintained -intact, the causes for daily gossip had scarcely ever been less than -two, and each day that waned had always had its great news. Generally, -when the weather was very fine, and everyone had left their rooms to -sally forth in the open air, if only to descend on foot to the Bad and -return by the tram, when even the soft and lazy Egyptian women, with -their magnificent black eyes, pale faces, and intensely rich, though -sometimes tasteful, dresses, were outside the hotel, although only at -the door, making a pretence of coming and going, the daily scandal had -been but one, which was born and prospered at lunch, was most robust -at dinner, and flourished the rest of the evening, only to perish at -night. But on the days of the 9th and 10th of August, on which it had -rained, and on the 11th, on which it had snowed slightly, when even -the most intrepid pedestrians like the Comtesse Fulvia Gioia and Donna -Carlotta Albano had remained at home in the hotel, when neither Madame -Lawrence, nor Madame Lesnoy, nor the Marquise d'Allart had been able to -play golf, when even all the men had stayed at home, to drag out the -time in chatting, smoking, and playing poker, bridge, and billiards, -in these three days of closure the scandals had been three new ones -every day, after even those of the preceding day had been revived. -And every day the clients of the Palace Hotel, each in their own set, -when they met in the morning or later at lunch, after some vague words -about health or the weather, took up at once the usual, unchangeable -question and answer: "_Chère amie, connaissez vous le potin de ce -matin?_"--"_Oh, ma chère, mais je ne sais rien du tous, dites-le moi -donc._" - -However, not all the women and men, old and new clients of the Palace -Hotel, were gossips. Some of the women, if not many, kept decidedly -aloof from all this scandalmongering, and despised it secretly. Very -many of the men, through refinement of spirit and education, had the -most complete indifference, even insensibility to scandal. But the -serenest women who, because of the beauty of their interior life were -accustomed to keep their minds free from everything trivial, allowed -themselves to be taken by the slight, childish deceit which the -curiosity of friend or enemy offers to women. Even the most insensible -of men consented, through cold courtesy and polite condescension, to -become worldly and pretend an interest in the first, second, or third -scandal of the day. The Marquise di Vieuxcastel, most exquisite, of a -delicate beauty, through a double elegance, moral and material, through -a lively taste for art and letters, fascinating in every grace of mind -and person, was not a gossip. The Comtesse Pierre de Gérard and the -Baronesse de Gourmont, two sisters, could not be gossips, both were of -a classic though different beauty, both were dowered with characters -full of energy and sweetness; each of the great ladies showed pride in -every expression, especially the first, the famous Comtesse Pierre, -a perfect and conscious pride. The Duchesse de Langeais, for whom -the care of her beauty and an amiable desire of pleasure hindered -every other expression of mind, was not a gossip. Nor was the Gräfin -Durckeim, the eccentric Hungarian, whose life was a romance, though -completed. Nor was the Duchesse d'Armaillé, who was goodness herself. -These and other ladies could not be soiled by the pitch of scandal, -but involuntarily, through curiosity, through politeness, or so as -not to be accused of prudishness, they listened but heard not in the -presence of the really powerful scandalmongers--the Comtesse de Fleury, -all beautiful without and unclean within, Frau von Friedenbach, an old -lady of the Court at Berlin who had been dismissed for her political -indiscretions, which, in the main, had fed the German socialistic -press, the terrible old Baronesse de Tschudy, who had travelled for -forty years and knew four million scandals about four thousand people -she had met. Everywhere, before all the scandalmongers, these proud, -quiet, frank, good women could but yield for a moment, allowing -themselves to be seized for an instant by a childish and always -illusive curiosity, and by a sacrifice to worldly politeness. - -As for the men, who for the most part, and far more so than the women, -were immune from scandalmongery, they gave way, not only because of -the obligations of social life, not only so as not to be singular and -to show themselves complacent, but perhaps to please certain ladies -of the Palace Hotel or ladies outside, which they could not succeed -in doing except by gossiping with more or less wit. It was impossible -to pay court to Madame Lawrence--the lovely professional beauty of -the year--a useless court, as a matter of fact, in results, but which -deceived only in its appearance, without telling her all the scandals -which had been invented and were passing to and fro about her. It was -impossible to see her interested or smile unless they repeated all -the grotesque and perverse things which the other women had invented -or were inventing about her. It was impossible to enter the circle of -Madame d'Aguilar, the rich and munificent Brazilian--who every day had -ten people to lunch and fifteen to dinner, had three carriages always -at the disposal of her friends, and gave _cotillons_, with gifts of -great value--without being mettlesome, or a witty chronicler of the -rarest scandal. It was impossible to accompany on a walk the little -Marquise d'Allart, pale and pink like fragile Dresden china, but greedy -and hungry and thirsty for _potins_. She would exclaim peevishly: -"_Mais n'en savez vous pas un d'inédit, de potin? Rien que les vieux, -les usès? Allons, cherchez, cherchez!_" Giorgio Galanti, an Italian -gentleman from Bologna, whose wit was as fine as a hair, very quick, -a fascinating _conteur_, had found a method, the secret of which he -offered to those who had no other, of conquering the feminine spirit. -He used to go day and night outside the "Palace," into the other hotels -of the Dorf and Bad, wherever he had discovered a beautiful woman or -a pretty girl, and after a conversation on vague subjects, he would -say: "_Madame, connaissez vous le dernier potin du 'Palace'? Il est -épatant, je vous assure._" The effect was certain. Immediately seized -by curiosity, tickled in her latent snobbishness, wishing to know all -the little mysteries of Olympus--the "Palace"--the lady from the Grand -Hotel, the "Schweizerhof," the Hôtel du Lac, the "Victoria," would -turn her beautiful eyes to Giorgio Galanti, which told him that not -only were they questioning him, but were promising him the reward of -indiscretion. - -But if the tittle-tattle--first, second, and third class--of every day -of the extremely _chic_ society of the "Palace" was sometimes vulgar -or frankly cruel in substance, it was always light, witty, graceful, -and diverting in form. The most terrible things, true or fairly true, -were said with such a _brio_, such ingenuousness, and often with such -profound humour, that not only did they cause no horror, but they -even caused the whitest and tenderest souls to smile. The ineffable, -invincible, inimitable French language lent itself for this purpose, -that language in which everything is rounded, garlanded, and shines. -It is true that Paul Fry, the Bohemian, was a player of extraordinary -strength and fortune at every game, who always tried to play with -millionaires and millionairesses; but the great _potin_, with which -Giorgio Galanti attracted the most Catholic and snobbish Spaniard, -Donna Mercédès de Fuentes, was when Fry, bold and cool, began to play -with Signora Azquierda, an immensely rich Argentinian, who lived at -Paris, and having tried conclusions with her, she won from him three -thousand francs at poker--she, the woman, from him, Paul Fry, the -invincible! Was not this _potin_ told attractively, delicious in its -perversity? Then there was another scandal, that about Lady Hermione -Crozes, the Englishwoman divorced from Lord Crozes, tall, thin, ruddy -of countenance, with dazzling eyes, who disappeared directly after -lunch and dinner, and whom everyone believed to have shut herself up -in her room to receive a lover, till at last it was discovered that -she went to drink all alone twice a day, consuming the most terrible -mixtures, and her maids had to help her in her furies, or take care -of her like a baby in her torpors that seemed like death. Said with -good grace, did not this atrocious happening lose all its atrocity? -Another scandal which lasted more than a day, a most important one, -concerned Frau van der Claes, a Hamburg lady, who had a poor lover and -a son of twenty, both of whom had cost her much money, and how one -day Frau van der Claes, when Lina Cavalieri had arrived at the Hôtel -du Lac, had seen her son, which did not matter, and her lover, which -was a serious business, fall head over ears in love with the beautiful -Italian singer, and her mad anger and the money she squandered on her -son to make him a rival to her lover so that he might miss the goal -and return to her, and the useless courting of the Cavalieri by son -and lover--this intensely complicated scandal, how well it circulated, -how sketchy in its disgusting particulars, how graceful in its brutal -circumstances! - -About Annie Clarke and her daughter Mabel, during their sojourn -there of three weeks, there had been at least ten large scandals and -twenty little ones. Their milliard, their eight hundred, or hundred, -or hundred and fifty, or fifty, or thirty millions had formed an -accidental variation to the scandals, and the birth and life of the -very placid Mrs. Annie Clarke, so like a dumb and patient idol, had -been time after time related in bizarre terms, telling how she had -been an opera singer, or a nurse, or the daughter of a shepherd in the -Far West, or an Italian foundling, and finally the widow of another -millionaire, whom Mr. Clarke, on losing his wife, had ruined and forced -to commit suicide. - -And what an amount of _potins_, inside and outside the hotel, about -the excellent Mr. Clarke, who remained on the other side of the ocean, -in his palace on Fifth Avenue, and every two days sent a cablegram -to his ladies, to tell them he was well and that all was well, -and every two days received a very short telegram in reply--which -simplified correspondence. What _potins_ of the first order about Mr. -Clarke, who was declared to be enormously rich or stupidly poor, an -undeserving thief or a philanthropist, a king of rubber, an emperor -of gutta-percha, a father eternal of aluminium for cooking utensils! -What little _potins_ every evening about the solitary jewel of the -day of Mrs. Clarke--the pearl collar, the emerald pin, the ruby ring, -the diadem of diamonds; and all of them enormous, colossal--pearls, -emeralds, ruby, sapphire, diamond. What _potins_ these were, and -the principal _potin_ of all that these jewels, too unique, too -enormous, too colossal, were perfectly imitated from the real, that -they were false: "_Oui, ma chère, du toc, pas autre chose; du toc -splendide, mais du toc!_" And about Mabel Clarke,--so beautiful, so -full of every grace, so amiable, so frank, the image and symbol of a -race vibrant with youth, the image and symbol of a new femininity, -different and differently graced and attractive--what a daily exercise -of scandalmongers, whom her simplicity and loyalty did not succeed in -disarming, created especially by mothers blessed with daughters; and -how her virtue and her dowry suffered tremendous oscillations from one -day to another. She was very rich, richer than Anna Gould or Gladys -Vanderbilt; she was poorest of the poor; she had refused the Duke of -Sairmeuse, because she wished to be a Serene Highness; she had had an -intrigue with a tenor of the Manhattan theatre; she had been engaged -to a son of a king of tinned goods; she was a cold flirt; she adored -Italy, and would have married even a dandy of Lucca; she had been -converted to Catholicism; she was making a fool of Vittorio Lante; she -loved him. All this kept increasing towards the decline of the season, -the more so as all the other _potins_ had been consumed and some were -threadbare; the more so as the now open love of Vittorio and Mabel -exasperated so many people--hunters after dowries for silent, sad -daughters who never found a husband, mothers of eligible young men--all -were annoyed at another's fortune, another's love, another's happiness. -On the evening of the great _cotillon de bienfaisance_ at the Palace -Hotel, with tickets at twenty francs, the night of the 25th of August, -the last great ball at the "Palace," the _chic_ night of _chic_ -nights, the love-making, engagement, and marriage of Mabel Clarke and -Vittorio Lante, the no love, no engagement, the no marriage, were the -greatest and most multiform source of gossip of the day, evening, and -night. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Unfailingly every lady who entered, in all the splendour of her ball -dress, stopped a moment at the threshold of the hall of the Palace -Hotel, to give a glance at the hall, which is divided into two or three -parts, curiously divided and united, where the fortunate inhabitants of -this Olympus of the Engadine were standing, sitting, or walking about -in pairs or groups. And by the lady's rapid and indicative glance, -which embraced the spectacle, she was at once recognised as initiated -or profane. The initiated was the lady of other hotels of the Bad or -Dorf who, by her rank and habits, was constantly in touch with the -Olympus of the "Palace," who often came there to dinner and took part -in all the balls; she was the great lady living in a sumptuous private -villa with her family, retinue, and carriages, and hence she was not -only initiated, but was a goddess of an Olympus more Olympian than -the "Palace," if it is possible to imagine it. The initiated halted a -moment to look, at the threshold of the hall, merely to search with her -eye for an especial friend; and she, if there, would come towards her -with a rustling of silk, with a shining of sequins and diamonds, and -would take the initiated away with her to a corner at the back to chat, -as they waited for the ball. - -But in the glance of the profane, at the threshold of the sacred -vestibule, which they had seldom crossed in the daytime or never, -and who were certainly crossing it for the first time at night, -everything was to be seen: uncertainty, curiosity, vanity, humility, -embarrassment, fastidiousness, and perhaps even a slight feeling of -pain. The more vainly audacious of the profane adored and hated the -"Palace" from afar, and they were dying to go there to mix with those -Olympian surroundings, yet none of them ever succeeded in being invited -there; so they pretended not to mind and spoke badly of the "Palace," -though they would have walked on their knees to enter and remain -there on one or all of the guest nights. Other profane were anxious -to gain an intimate knowledge of an atmosphere famous for its refined -luxury, for its exquisite pleasures, for a sense of exclusiveness, -and secretly tormented by curiosity and desires beyond their station, -had eagerly waited the chance of living there for one evening only, -even as intruders. Some other profane living at St. Moritz apart from -great festivities, meetings, and amusements, wishing for one night to -show the rich dress they had never put on, and the hair tiring they -had never tried, wishing for one evening not to be bored, had firmly -believed in satisfying this complex desire of theirs by passing an -enchanting evening at the "Palace." And since for twenty francs one -could reach this lofty, closed Olympus, since for only twenty francs -one could enter this terrestrial paradise, all the profane--the vain, -the covetous, the dreamers, the curious, the bored--had been preparing -themselves for a week for this supreme approach, had been agitated -about their dress, their hair tire, their cloak, their carriage, and -their escort. In appearance they were happily agitated, but secretly -they were preoccupied about cutting a poor figure in some way, -and they pretended ease, distraction, simplicity, as if from time -immemorial they had been frequenters of the "Palace." But the moment -they penetrated the first vestibule of the temple dedicated to the god -"Snob," in that temple which seemed to bear written, in its shining -lights, in the superb wealth spread around, in the powerful luxury of -its atmosphere and its people, the prophetic and violent motto of an -ardent and feverish society: "EVVIVA LA VITA!" - -When these profane, these intruders, entered there, all their emotion, -all their fervour, in the long glance, changed into doubt, regret, -and pain, and they would almost have turned back, as if they felt -themselves profane, more than ever and eternally profane. However, -hesitation, contrition, and pain were but for a moment: with the deep, -civil courage of which women give a hundred proofs every day, of which -no one is aware, though often it reaches to heroism; with an act of -resolution and valour, with feigned indifference and ingenuousness, the -profane entered and advanced, as if they were initiated. No one came -forward to meet them; they knew not where to direct themselves, whether -to right or left or to the rear; but followed resolutely by their -husbands and brothers, they went and sat down in some place, fanning -themselves or playing with their shawls, tranquil in appearance, as if -they were of the house, as if they had lived for years at the "Palace." - -Soon the profane were in every corner; and if their number increased, -their worldly condition at that festival was not bettered. No one knew -them there, they knew no one--they remained isolated. After chatting a -little with a husband or brother or son who accompanied them, appearing -to smile and joke, to be interested and amused, they became silent and -discouraged. They watched with badly concealed anxiety the elegant -crowd that surrounded them, that was seated or grouped together or -divided, as it greeted each other or chatted livelily; the poor profane -watched to discover a face they knew of man or woman, to exchange, -if not a word, a greeting, a smile, a nod with a human being of that -crowd, and, disconsolate, finding none, they lowered their eyes upon -the figures of their Louis XVI fans. Still more deeply irritated were -the profane who by chance knew someone at the "Palace." The loud, -presumptuous, very wealthy Frau Mentzel came from the Stahlbad, and -as she held a privileged court there, she had succeeded sometimes, -merely by chance, in having at her luncheons, her _goûters_, and her -dinners some gentleman of the "Palace" itself, or some initiated of -the "Badrutt," of the Grand Hotel, the Château, the villas, on days -in which one of these gentlemen had absolutely nothing better to do; -this Frau Mentzel was absolutely scandalised because among the three or -four of those she knew one had greeted her, saying two words, and had -turned on his heels; another had merely bowed to her without speaking; -another had not seen her; and the last had openly pretended not to have -seen her. Covered with jewels, in a sumptuous Parisian toilette, with -an enormous feather in her hair, she did nothing but grind her teeth, -chewing curses against the four _lâcheurs_, while her husband and her -two _cavalieri serventi_, two colourless and humble parasites, listened -terrified and silent, as they bowed their heads servilely. - -As for Donna Mercédès de Fuentes, profane of the profane, who looked -very beautiful in a white satin dress trimmed with silver, who was -always beautiful, in spite of too much rouge, bistre, and pearl powder, -with which she spoiled her brown, Spanish face, she had seen three or -four faces pass before her; and among them her Italian friend, Don -Giorgio Galanti. Every time the perfidious Italian gave his arm to -a different lady and only once had he directed at Donna Mercédès a -greeting and a distinctly cold smile. And she had hoped to be led round -in triumph by him through the _salons_ of the "Palace"; she had dared -to hope to dance the _cotillon_ with him. Deluded and deeply snubbed, -she had not even the strength to quarrel in Spanish with her poor -husband; her beautiful black eyes, which were too much underlined with -bistre, filled with tears. - -As if they wished to show even more markedly the distance that -separated them from the profane, matrons and maids and gentlemen of all -ages treated each other with such domesticity, with such familiarity, -that they seemed to be the closest relations, the most intimate and -inseparable friends. The women particularly _tutoied_ each other; -many men and women called each other by name. French diminutives -and English endearments were to be heard and strange nicknames. One -greeted Fanchette, another excused the absence of Bob, one gave news -of Dorine, another asked after Gladys or spoke of Bibi's illness. In -that society it seemed as if no one any longer had a surname or title; -all seemed brothers, cousins, husbands, lovers of one race and caste, -of a single country and house. Whatever did the wretched, profane -intruders know about those names, endearments, and nicknames, whoever -they were, wherever they came from, whatever they did; if Bibi were -a man or woman, or if Gladys were young or old? However could the -profane intruders understand those conversations in French, English, -or German, conversations which seemed to be carried on in a special -and incomprehensible, aristocratic jargon, full of sub-understandings, -references to people unknown to them, allusions to events they knew -nothing of; however could they understand that chaff full of completely -conventional wit, whose formula escaped them? What could they see in -the malicious smiles, in the little sceptical bursts of laughter? What -could they grasp of the subdued, half-uttered phrases said with a -sneer--a regular cryptic language, let us say? How could they imagine -from a word thrown into the ear an assignment, a refusal, a consent, a -warning, a malignity, a trouble, a scandal especially; words underlined -by a fleeting but expressive glance, by a rapid but suggestive squeeze -of the hand? Ought not the profane intruders to be astonished, -stupefied, almost oppressed by all this, while the curious, alluring -spectacle was augmenting their wonderment and secret pain? - -A curious, most curious, yet alluring spectacle! Not one of the ladies -of the "Palace" or of the initiated resembled each other; not one was -dressed alike; there was not one whose jewels resembled another's; -not one whose beauty was equal to another's; not one whose ugliness -was similar to another's ugliness. All were truly Olympian, by an -almost mysterious sign that made them seem of one race and caste, of -but one country and family. But beyond this indefinite sign, each -preserved a personal character in face, dress, features, and gestures. -And all these women seemed to be detached from a background even more -phantasmagorial, of exquisite French women, who caused the flowing -lines of their Parisian dresses to undulate gently from their hips, -amidst light lace and soft silk, purposely brought from the great -_ateliers_ of the Rue de la Paix for balls at the "Palace"--_le Palace, -ma chère, vous pensez_--detached from a background of Austrian ladies, -with rich and graceful dresses, certainly beautiful, but rather more -pleasing than beautiful; separated by a background of Egyptians, -Greeks, Roumanians, Argentines, Spaniards, who owed it to their -immense fortunes, their natural, humble sweetness of temperament, that -they were enabled to be introduced and placed in the Olympus of the -"Palace"; detached from a background of Italian women, majestic and -grave, or pretty and witty--each figure, amidst those more prominent -and those more in the shade, with her own character and own life -forming a curious, singular, and alluring spectacle. The profane -intruders, with dazzled eyes and bewildered glance, went from one to -another of these feminine figures and now and then, tired of wondering, -they lowered their glance, a little pale, before a world of such varied -appearances, multiform and dissimilar, a world from which every moment -they felt themselves separated for ever: they raised their eyes, ever -less anxiously, ever more fatigued, for some new, wondrous apparition. - -At last, amidst the murmurs of the whole crowd, appeared, late as -usual, the famous Miss Miriam Jenkyns, a divine girl--_ah, elle est -vraiment divine, ma chère_--with whom already ten to thirty celebrated -personages were in love, and numerous unknown personages. Amongst the -illustrious were an hereditary prince of a powerful empire, an Indian -Maharajah, a grandee of Spain, a celebrated scientist, a renowned -painter and father of sons; but Miss Jenkyns loved none of them, and -instead, contented herself with her unrestrained desire of conquest, -being now a Europeanised American girl, full of the deepest scepticism. -Nevertheless, as she came from Pontresina she appeared one of the last, -desired and invoked especially by those who had never seen her. She -appeared in a wilful simplicity, dressed in a tunic of white wool, -like the "Primavera" of Sandro Botticelli, adorned with a branch of -flowers which crossed the skirt right to its hem, with hair knotted a -little loosely as in the picture of the great Tuscan, and covered with -loose flowers, with a white tulle shawl, like a cloud, on her shoulders -and arms. Her natural beauty had been recomposed and transformed by -her according to the purest pre-Raphaelite type, and it was very -difficult to discover the subtle and minute art of the recomposition -and transformation. There was another great murmuring, one of the -last, when the Princess of Leiningen entered, an Armenian who, in the -strangest circumstances, had married a German mediatised prince, a -military prince, whose appearances were rare. Not very tall of stature, -in fact rather small, but moulded to perfection, with little hands and -feet, the Princess of Leiningen comprised within herself the poetic -legends of Armenian beauty. Beneath a mass of black, shining hair, her -forehead was white and short, her two immense black eyes were shining -like jewels; she had a pure, oval face, very white, on which the long -eyelashes cast a slight shadow, touched up by the inevitable but pretty -_maquillage_ of Eastern women, with rather a crimson rouge on the -cheeks and the lobes of the ears, a slightly violet shade beneath the -eyes, some black, the better to arch the subtle eyebrows, and a little -of the rather crimson rouge on the lips. She was dressed completely in -black, and since she was so white she seemed to rise from a background -of shadow; an immense hat of black tulle strangely framed her white -face and splendid eyes. She always wore an immense hat, black or white, -even with her _décolleté_ dresses, and she never danced. She crossed -the room with her light little feet, shod in white satin, without -looking at anyone--a dream creature, unreal as one of Edgar Allan Poe's -characters, unreal as a vision in an hallucination. She remained at -the back of the _salon_ silent beneath the shadow of her black hat and -black dress, completely white with her unreal countenance. - -At this last strange appearance the profane felt their impressions to -be founded and they settled themselves into two different parties. -The one, proud and impertinent, like Frau Mentzel, openly hated the -surroundings they had wished to penetrate and began to vent their -anger and their humiliation, finding all the matrons and maids of the -"Palace," who were unaware of their existence, ugly, awkward, indecent, -shameless, venting their anger on their husbands and followers who, -poor people, through cowardice agreed, though they were frightened at -heart lest these vituperations should be heard, as they looked around -them carefully in fear of a scandal. The other party, true snobs, blind -and deaf adorers of that surrounding, venerated it even more deeply, -felt themselves even more humiliated, and oppressed, bewailing even -more their own anonymity, nullity, and lack of existence. They felt -they deserved to be anonymous there and non-existing for ever: they -understood that they had no right, that they never would have any right -to belong to that superior, unarrivable, sublime humanity that lived at -the "Palace"! - -The which superior, unreachable, sublime humanity, while it aroused -such vain disdain, such empty proposals of revenge, such sterile -lamentation among the wretched profane, was troubling itself with -nothing else at that lively and intense hour of the ball but with that -deep and supreme feminine interest--to see, observe, study, value, and -put a figure on the jewels of the other women in the ballroom. To note, -analyse, and value these jewels and compare them with their own; at -times to smile in triumph, or enviously, or really bitterly, according -as their own jewels succeeded in being superior, equal, inferior, or -very inferior to the others. Their eyes seemed not to rest on the pearl -necklaces, on the _rivières_ of diamonds, the diadems of pearls and -diamonds, the emerald solitaires, and the ruby sprays. Their glance was -fleeting, their lips offered other words, but the women did nothing but -mentally make rapid calculations, after which they smiled carelessly, -or suddenly sighed, or were unexpectedly disturbed. For on that summer -night in the high mountains, in a landscape of the purest beauty, amid -proud peaks so close to the stars, amid eternal glaciers that told an -austere and terrible tale, in that room there were collected, in the -shape of jewels, the fortune perhaps of a populace. At the splendour -of thousands and thousands of gems, at the scintillations of those -thousands of precious stones, in the presence of all that bewildering -brilliance, women's beauty, girls' grace, and richness of apparel -were concentrated into a furnace of light, lost their value, and were -completely eclipsed. Each woman's hair, neck, bosom, and arms were so -thickly crowded with pearls and diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, while -the jewels of some were few, but enormous, that nothing took the eye -or mind, at once astonishing and frightening, but that mad, frenzied -luxury up there in the high mountains, in the still summer night, not -far from the whiteness of the peaks profiled against the sky. But -suddenly even that madness and frenzy seemed conquered, and in spite -of the studied reserve of all those women, and in spite of the studied -indifference of the men, a word passed from group to group, from room -to room, murmured a hundred times, softly or loudly: - -"The tiara! The tiara!" - -Mrs. Annie Clarke appeared in the hall, coming from her apartments, -although her daughter had been dancing for an hour, having for her -partner in the _cotillon_ Don Vittorio Lante della Scala. Being lazy, -Annie Clarke always arrived late, or perhaps she did so purposely. That -evening she was wearing a rather dark dress of purple velvet, trimmed -with quite simple lace; from neck and bosom descended a _rivière_ of -diamonds, which were very large at the neck, and afterwards became less -large, in long streams of small, shining diamonds, like streams of -running water, falling to the waist, whence neck, bosom, and corsage -assumed a luminous, strange appearance. But what was astounding in -Annie Clarke that evening, what had never been seen before, was her -diamond tiara. It was not a single diadem of large diamonds, but three -diadems, one above the other, in flowers, and leaves, and Arabic work -and points. It was a veritable little tower of diamonds, perched on a -suitable coiffure. It was a tiara that bizarrely resembled those of -the High Priests of Buddha in Indian temples, a tiara that strangely -resembled the jewelled triple crown of the Pope of the whole Catholic -world. It was the tiara of all the great American ladies, the famous -tiara of the house of Clarke, like a lighthouse or like the torch -which Bartholdi's "Liberty" holds aloft over the port of Brooklyn, to -show navigators the entrance to New York. As Annie Clarke crossed the -length of the hall quietly and indifferently to pay her respects to Her -Serene Highness, the Grand Duchess of Salm-Salm, this Clarke tiara, -beacon and torch of America, eclipsed, annulled, destroyed--a unique, -inimitable jewel--all the other jewels of the women who were gathered -there. After a great silence of wonderment amongst the throng, of -groups near and far, after a silence of stupor, spite, annoyance, envy, -anger, and sadness; after some instants of these atrocious, seething -sentiments of every kind, a chattering began and spread everywhere -about the tiara and against it, about Mabel's marriage and against it. - -"_Puis-je me congratuler pour les fiançailles de votre chère fille?_" -the Grand Duchess politely asked Annie Clarke. - -As she bowed, the tiara threw a stream of light around. Beneath her -tiara Annie Clarke smiled, bowed, and expressed her thanks. - - * * * * * - -Of the hundred and twenty ladies who were present at the "Palace" -festivities that evening but eighty, perhaps, were seated round the -ballroom for the charity _cotillon_; and among the eighty only thirty -were dancing. Thus even in this that reputation for theatricalism -and parade, which everything assumed in the "Palace" Olympus, was -maintained: that reputation was maintained, so that there was always -a spectacle and a public which at times changed sides, passing from -the stage to the stalls, and vice versa. There were not many couples, -then, to dance in the long and undulating whirls of the "Boston," in -the rapid if rarer twirls of the waltz--so much the fashion now the -"Boston," so out of fashion the waltz! There were not many couples, -hence those who danced had plenty of room in which to turn round, now -languidly, now more resolutely, in the difficult modern art of the -"Boston." There was no bumping of each other; trains gyrated in their -silken softness without being trod upon; voile and tulle skirts seemed -like revolving clouds. Thus the dancers could display all their mastery -of the dance if they possessed it, and those who did not possess it -dared not expose themselves on the stage, since all around the curious, -attentive public followed such a dance spectacle as if they were at -the theatre; observing, criticising, approving, and scoffing. On that -stage there were some of the dancers of the first flight: the slender -Principessa di Castelforte in her white dress and with her string of -pearls, worth half a million; another Italian, the Marchesa di Althan, -a reed of a woman with an attractive, ugly face; Signorina de Aguilar, -a Brazilian, dressed in red, with a vigour quite Spanish, dancing -like a lost soul, like an insatiable flame. Madame Lawrence danced -like a Grecian bas-relief; Miss Mabel Clarke with perfect harmony, -in the grace and ardour of the dance; Miss Miriam Jenkyns glided as -if she were a shadow or a nymph on the meadows. And there were other -celebrated dancers, celebrated in all cosmopolitan _salons_, at -Biarritz, at Nice, and at Cairo. - -In the first flight among the men were Count Buchner, the diplomat, -who had danced in all the capitals of the world for thirty years on -end, and at sixty, dried and withered as he was, was still a beautiful -dancer; the beau of beaux, the Hungarian, the Comte de Hencke, the -famous dancer of the _majourka_ to the music of Liszt; Don Vittorio -Lante della Scala, one of the most graceful and vigorous dancers of -Italy; the young Comte de Roy, the little Frenchman; Edward Crozes, -the twenty-year-old son of Lady Crozes. People came and went from the -hall, the saloon, and other rooms, and the audience at the performance -changed and was renewed around the famous dancers. The performance -continued, each performing his or her part with artistic zeal, amidst -the approval or adverse criticisms of the audience. In a dress of -tenderest pink _crêpe_, surrounded by a silver girdle, with a small -wreath of little roses around her riotous chestnut hair, Mabel Clarke, -one of the chief characters of this worldly comedy, was dancing the -beginning of the _cotillon_ with another of the chief dancer-actors, -Vittorio Lante della Scala; but seized by the truth and the force -of their feelings, they forgot to be actors. They had no thought of -pleasing others, of being admired by others. They forgot altogether -their surroundings, with their artifices and pretences and obligatory -masks; and only the perfect, tranquil joy of being together held them -in its beautiful frankness, of not leaving each other, of being able to -let themselves go to the rhythm of the music in harmonious turns, where -they seemed to depart and vanish afar in a dream of well-being led on -by the languid murmur of the music. In their sentimental absorption -they seemed even more to suit each other, and the public of the -boxes and stalls around them wondered at them, then with a sneer the -fashionable gossiping, calumny, and back-biting began again, subduedly. - -"... Lante has hit it off." - -"... The girl has lost her head." - -"... Of course, he has done his best to compromise her." - -"... In any case, he won't be the first." - -"... St. Moritz is a great marriage mart." - -"... There are plenty of men, too." - -Every now and then the music was silent, and the dancers promenaded arm -in arm or sat down for a moment, the girls with their hands full of -flowers and their figures crossed with ribbons of brilliant colours, -the _cotillon_ gifts. Then matron and maid would approach Mabel and -Vittorio with a smile of satisfaction on their lips, asking in French, -in English, in German: - -"May I congratulate you?" - -The American girl's beautiful head, crowned with roses, said "yes" with -a gracious, frank bow. Vittorio Lante, unable to control himself, for a -moment paled with joy, and twisted his yellow moustaches nervously. The -friend would be profuse in her compliments. - -"_Merci, chère, merci_," exclaimed Mabel Clarke frankly, in her limpid -voice. - -"Oh, thanks!" scarcely murmured Vittorio Lante. - -Once alone, they looked at each other, enjoying those delicious moments -intensely. Then, without speaking, in simultaneous action, they joined -in the dance again, between the Countess of Durckeim, the Hungarian, -a charming eccentric, and Beau de Hencke, who astonished the room, or -they danced between the Comte de Roy and Miriam Jenkyns, who danced as -if in one of Corot's pictures. Then the friend, maid or matron would -rejoin her own set. With spiteful glances, correctly veiled, with -slighting words and unfinished phrase, the chorus about Mabel Clarke -began again: - -"... Oh, these American girls, all the world is theirs. It is -disgusting." - -"... These American girls pretend to be strong, and as soon as they see -an Italian's moustaches they fall." - -"... These American girls; their dowry is always a story, a fable, a -romance." - -"... Dowry? A settlement, and uncertain, too." - -"... Papa Clarke may go under." - -"... He has gone under three times." - -"... Mabel's dear papa is a faker of pig's flesh." - -"... The mother is silly and vain. Poor Vittorio, what a father and -mother-in-law!" - -In a dance that became ever more lively, the first and second parts -of that theatrical spectacle passed--the "Palace" _cotillon_. A more -precipitous movement led the couples amidst gauze, tulle, ribbons, -paper caps, streamers of fresh flowers, and Swiss bells of silver paper. - -Now and then, during a moment's pause, a friend stopped beside Mabel -and Vittorio, formulated a courteous inquiry, bowed at the reply, -and offered his congratulations, seemingly complimentary and full of -worldly good-nature. The orchestra gave forth its fervid recall; the -couples danced anew in a hurried whirl. The friend would withdraw to -form the centre of a group of men, old, middle-aged, and young, to -whom he brought the news, and where the worldly, masculine choir, with -disingenuous air, with an air as if it did not matter, occupied itself -particularly with Vittorio Lante. - -"... He hasn't a farthing." - -"... Seven hundred thousand francs' worth of debts." - -"... Refused five times by five girls." - -"... His mother mends silk stockings to get a living." - -"... He can't pay his hotel bill." - -"... Oh, now his creditors will wait." - -"... Is it true that he paid his attentions to the mother?" - -"... He hasn't a title. The real princes are the others, the Della -Rovere." - -"... He can buy it back; it is there in the family. He has only to pay -well for it." - -"... He can do that now." - -"... It seems that the girl has already given him money. It is the -custom in America." - -More gaily, naturally, and simply towards its close, the _cotillon_ -gathered together all the couples in the room. By now all the actors -had forgotten parade and performance, and were merely abandoning -themselves to the great and intoxicating pleasure of living. The -_cotillon_ ended, because all wished to go to supper, to the extremely -dainty, exquisite supper which, in an extremely new _chic_ aspect, -closes every special night at the "Palace." In two or three rooms the -tables were ready. The company was chosen carefully, sympathetic and -antipathetic were again carefully expressed, with bizarre reunions -and cruel exclusions. In the ballroom the final picture still kept -the crowd. Upon two little chariots, drawn by hand, appeared two -great piles of green branches and wild flowers, tied with ribbons. -Drawn joyfully into the middle of the room, the bundles were opened, -revealing in the one Miriam Jenkyns, in the other Mabel Clarke, the two -leaders of the _cotillon_. The greatest applause greeted this final -picture, and while the pair led the final gallop, there were still some -discreet exclamations directed at Mabel and Vittorio: - -"_Vive les fiancés!_" - -Blushing in her pink dress as she left the room on Vittorio Lante's -arm, Mabel Clarke passed into the hall, to look for her mother to -sup at the great Clarke table. And now everyone surrounded her, to -congratulate her and Vittorio, and both, happy and composed, returned -thanks. A few moments afterwards all were seated at table. At a table -for men only, amidst young and old, all more or less dowry-hunters, -their less happy and less fortunate chief, the Vicomte de Lynen, was -telling in a low voice, between the _langouste à la Colbert_ and the -_chaufroid de gibier_, how three years ago Vittorio Lante had seduced -a poor cousin of his house, how she had had a baby by him, how he had -deserted mother and little daughter, and how the mother had threatened -to _vitrioler l'Américaine_. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Again, on the 23rd of August, the whole Engadine was encompassed and -surrounded by rain, not one of those rough, short showers of the high -mountains, which pass from valley to valley like a seething whirlwind, -and leave the sky cleansed and serene where they have passed, while -the sky they overtake becomes cloudy and obscured; but it was a soft, -close, continuous, almost tireless rain. The rain fell upon the ground -indefatigably, and impregnated it with profound damp and pungent -freshness; it fell on the waters of the lake, from the great lake -of Sils to the melancholy little lake of Statz, imprinting on them -thousands of little circles, thousands of little ripples; it fell upon -the leaves of the trees, the meadow grass, the last flowers of the -Alpine summer, and leaves and grass became lucid with a new and intense -green, and the flowers became brighter. It fell on roofs and verandahs, -on villages and countryside, and cleaned and clothed them with a -bright mist, renovating the air and ever purifying it. At windows and -balconies, at the glass doors of the hotel vestibules, on that rainy -morning there waited for some time all those who in the Engadine go out -every morning, sooner or later, many longing for the fresh, free air, -many for amusements and diversion, while others were sighing for the -usual meetings, of accident or design, for adventures begun or about to -begin. Each as he watched the sky and the horizon waited for the rain -to tire, diminish, and cease; but the rain seemed even more regular and -tranquil, as it fell methodically and monotonously in an immense veil -of light grey that held the whole Engadine. - -Then men, women, and children who were unwilling to renounce the open -air, their distractions and meetings, gradually vanished from window, -balcony, and the glass doors of vestibules, and by degrees the roads of -St. Moritz Bad, which had been deserted for one or two hours, began to -be filled with people sallying forth from the hotels, _dépendances_, -_pensions_, and villas, who descended on tram and foot from St. Moritz -Dorf to the Bad in search of life, movement, and people. But beneath -the fine downpour, and through the continuous silvery drops, people -were of another colour and assumed other lines. All the white dresses -of the women were changed to black, dark grey, and blue, and all the -white, transparent blouses had vanished, or were hidden beneath woollen -jackets, closely buttoned at the bosom, with collars raised; and skirts -were shorter than ever, showing the feet to the calf, shod in strong -boots with short nails. In place of white, blue, or pink veils, that -formed a cloud round hats and faces, were substituted dark veils which -surrounded hat and face tightly. All the variegated summer suits of -the men had vanished, with straw and panama hats, and all were dressed -gloomily in black overcoats; the Germans especially had drawn on their -ulsters, cut as it were with an axe, like the side of a chest of -drawers, with a belt behind held fast by a huge button. But beneath -the incessant rain all seemed another people, with other faces and -bodies, with other gestures and movements. All went with rapid steps, -without stopping, along the beautiful clear roads of the Bad, amidst -the gardens full of trees and the public park, only slowing their steps -beneath the famous porticoes of the Bad. Nearly all came and went to -and from the great wooden _promenoir_, where is the _Serpentquelle_, -a new spring, to and from the _galérie de bois_, which is the -meeting-place of meeting-places when it does not rain--but there is no -promenading when it rains--while in the background the orchestra plays -the more passionate airs from _Carmen_, and the more penetrating from -_Manon_, and on the other side the ladies pretend to drink the waters -while they walk up and down and flirt. That morning the _promenoir_ is -all humid with the rain, and there is a light vapour and steam in the -air; but the meetings, the distractions, adventures even, beneath the -rain, developed themselves, while the notes of _Aïda_ caused Italian -hearts to beat. - -In the afternoon, as the rain continued, a different way of using the -time was organised. In the vestibule of the Hôtel du Lac was hung -a notice, on which was written "_Kinderballet_," that is to say, a -children's dance, the celebrated, pretty dance for children which -takes place at that hotel on a wet day. At the "Stahlbad" Frau Mentzel -invited, through the telephone, fifty people to tea, when in the -_salon_ there were already fifty people belonging to the same hotel. -At St. Moritz Dorf, at the "Palace," twenty bridge tables were set, -instead of the usual eight; at the "Kulm" a billiard match was started. -Everywhere ping-pong tables were set up for boys and girls, everywhere -the reading-rooms overflowed with people, and as an exception each -took tea in his own hotel. Towards six the rain began to diminish, at -half-past six it rained no more; so nearly all the men went forth for -a quarter of an hour or five minutes for a breather, as they said, -or to buy a paper and flowers. All breathed a very fresh air, and he -who tarried found it very cold. At eight in the evening in all the -hotels, as the ladies came down to dinner in low dresses, the large -fireplaces had been lit; on entering their rooms at midnight they found -their fires lit, and the stoves roaring with heat. The thermometer had -descended rapidly to one degree below zero. Next morning the whole -Engadine was covered with snow; it had snowed for five or six hours -during the night. - -As from his windows he watched the landscape become white with a -wintry aspect, but without any of the cruel sadness of a winter day, -with a slight whiteness in which he perceived grass and earth, with -a whiteness almost ready to melt and vanish, Lucio Sabini moved -impatiently. He opened the windows to see better, and leant out. He -perceived that on the roads the snow had already vanished, but that the -woods and meadows were still covered with it, and that the mountains -around were covered with snow right to their base. - -"But the roads are free," he said to himself, striving to conquer his -impatience. - -Impatience, uncertainty, and irritation disturbed him, as he dressed -rapidly, glancing now and then at his watch. During the night he -had slept little and badly, owing to a dull restlessness which he -attributed to the idea of having to rise early that morning for the -excursion with Lilian Temple and Miss May Ford to the Bernina Pass. -He had slept little and badly, perhaps because his heart, nerves, and -senses were overflowing with life, in a fullness that was sometimes -too tumultuous, which he strove in vain to repress and hide. In the -presence of the snow that had rendered white and cold all the landscape -of mountains and woods, of meadows and houses, the fear lest that -expected, desired, invoked excursion, that excursion which was perhaps -to be the most beautiful and exalted of that month of love, could no -longer take place, suddenly conquered him and bore him down, like a -child who has had what he most desired snatched away from him. - -"They will not go," he said to himself, as he finished dressing. - -And the day that was a mistake and a failure oppressed him with the -weight of a mortal sadness. The carriage which was to take them to the -Bernina Pass ought already to be in front of the "Kulm," according -to the instructions he had given the driver. Already he should have -walked the short stretch from his "Caspar Badrutt" to the "Kulm." But -with all the snow on the mountains and the woods and meadows perhaps -even the coachman had considered the excursion postponed. - -"Postponed--till when? The month is ending," thought Lucio Sabini to -himself bitterly. - -At eight in the morning it was very silent at his hotel; most of the -early risers, perhaps, having seen the snow, had remained in bed. He -went into the long corridor, where at the end was the telephone; he -asked for and obtained communication with the Hôtel Kulm, and begged -that they would ask if the Misses Temple and Ford still decided to -go to the Bernina. He waited at the telephone, pale, with his eyes a -little swollen from want of sleep, chewing the end of a cigarette which -had gone out. Suddenly the "Kulm" telephone rang, and told him that -Miss Temple was at the telephone. He strove to restrain himself, and -said quietly from the telephone: - -"Good day, Miss Temple; look at the snow." - -"Very beautiful indeed," replied a fresh, sweet voice from the -telephone. - -"Aren't you afraid? Are we still going to the Bernina?" he exclaimed, -with a trembling of the voice which he could not conquer. - -"Yes, we are still going," she replied, in a secure and tranquil voice. - -"Can I come, then?" - -"Of course; _au revoir_." - -He crossed the silent, deserted little streets of the Dorf in a great -hurry; the shops were scarcely opening their doors; the window-panes -were dim, and behind the window cases the shutters were still barred. -At the hotel doors the little _chasseurs_, in dark green uniform, were -beating their feet against the road. Not a soul was going up or coming -down; not a soul was on the square before the "Kulm"; but, faithful to -orders, the coachman was there with his carriage, only he was wrapped -up in a heavy cloak, and had placed rugs over his two fat, strong -horses, so that they should not catch cold while he waited. Now and -then the horses shook their heads, causing all their bells to tinkle. -The air was calm and equable, but very cold. Lucio Sabini entered the -vestibule, and found himself in the large Egyptian hall, where there -was not a soul; after a moment he saw Lilian Temple coming towards -him. The dear girl was dressed in a short dress of black cloth, with a -short, pleated skirt. She wore a close-fitting jacket of otter-skin, -buttoned up closely, brightened by a cravat of white lace; she had on a -little black hat, with a white lace veil fitting closely over the rosy -face and blond hair. Like a boy of eighteen in love, Lucio Sabini found -her more beautiful than ever. On her arm she carried a heavy cloak and -a carriage-rug, which she placed on a chair to give her hand to Lucio. - -"The carriage is waiting," he murmured vaguely, in the first moment of -happy confusion which Lilian's presence always caused him. - -"I heard the bells," she murmured, equally confused, showing her -confusion more than he. - -"It is very cold." - -"It doesn't matter." - -"Of course it doesn't matter," he consented, speaking as if in a dream. - -There was a silence between them: a silence full of things. - -"Isn't Miss Ford ready yet?" he asked, to break the silence. - -"She isn't coming to the Bernina," replied Lilian simply. - -"Not coming?" asked Lucio, startled and disturbed. - -"She is no longer so young. She suffers from rheumatism, and it is very -cold," said Lilian sweetly. - -Again he experienced a moment of atrocious doubt, and was atrociously -oppressed by the thought of the excursion postponed, of the day missed. - -"And are we to go alone?" he asked, hesitating, and fearing the reply. - -"We two are going alone," replied Lilian serenely. - -It was impossible for him, a man over whom so many intoxicating and -terrible emotions had passed, to dominate the pallor which disturbed -his face, and the blush that afterwards suffused it. He could say -nothing for the interior tumult of his being. She, still serene, added: - -"Dear May wishes me to leave a note to tell her what time we shall -probably return. At what time shall we return, Signor Sabini?" - -"At six, I think; not before," he stammered. - -"The whole day, then," replied the girl. She went to a table and wrote -a note on a leaf from her pocket-book, enclosed it in an envelope, and -gave it to a servant. Then her periwinkle-blue eyes invited Lucio to -follow her to the stairs which descended to the vestibule; a little -_chasseur_ came after them, carrying the wraps and the rug. Agilely -Lilian climbed up with a spring, Lucio placed himself beside her, the -_chasseur_ spread the rug over their knees and settled the wraps. The -coachman, too, wrapped his feet and body in a covering as far as his -chest, and cracked his whip; the bells tinkled, the carriage started -along the silent road that crosses the Dorf and inclines towards the -wood on the hill of Charnadüras, and set off at a trot into the silent -country, all white with snow. - -As a reaction to his immense emotion of a few moments ago, Lucio Sabini -was invaded by a wave of cynicism. So this beautiful girl with whom he -was in love, and who was in love with him, was left in his power, she -was given to him for a whole day without hardly anyone knowing where -they had gone; alone for a whole day, scarcely being asked, and that -by chance, the hour of return, perhaps merely to fix the dinner-hour; -and Miss May Ford was doing this, Lilian Temple's only guardian, she -to whom her father had entrusted her as a second mother. But were -these Englishwomen, young and old, stupid and fools, or corrupt? And -did they think him an idiot or a saint? Why was the girl entrusted to -him, to whom he had been making love for three weeks? So that he should -compromise her, perhaps, and be forced to marry her? What a stupid -joke to play on an experienced man like him; there was not a Miss Ford -in the land of Albion, or any other land, who could have managed him! -And was Lilian Temple unaware--an idiot, an accomplice? An accomplice? -Frowning and stern, he bit his lips beneath his moustaches. The -carriage crossed the great Valley of Samaden, where the snow covered -the Corvatsch and the Muotta to their bases, and extended in white -flutings over the expanses of the meadows. - -"What is the matter?" Lilian suddenly asked, after too long a silence. - -At first she looked at him timidly, then more frankly. And he saw in -her face an expression he had never noticed before. - -"I am tired," he replied coldly. - -"Tired?" - -"I slept badly and little," he replied dully, frowning. - -"But why?" - -"I don't know, I can't tell you, Miss Temple," he concluded, turning -his head away to avoid her glance. - -"Then," she said quietly, "this excursion must bore you a lot." - -"Oh!" he exclaimed ambiguously. - -"Let us turn back," she proposed, simply and sincerely. - -"Turn back? Turn back?" - -"Certainly. We will go another day to the Bernina. It is very far, and -you are so tired." - -He looked into her eyes and listened to every inflection of her voice; -but he discovered nothing but naturalness, loyalty, and candour. - -"Would you turn back, Miss Temple? Would you give up the outing?" - -"Certainly, to let you rest to-day, and see you this evening charming -and happy." - -"For me, Lilian?" - -"For you, dear," she replied, with a tremble of affection. All Lucio -Sabini's heart broke in tenderness: all the gall of cynicism, all -the poison of corruption was conquered and destroyed. She could not -understand how base had been his thoughts and how he repented of having -yielded to such base thoughts: Lilian could not have understood one of -those infamous ideas. She noticed that he was bending over her to speak -to her in his Italian tongue which she only half understood, which he -adopted so spontaneously in moments of abandonment and sentimental -dedication. - -"_Povero caro amor mio ... tanto caro._" - -"What are you saying?" she asked, a little anxiously. - -"Beautiful things, things of love," he replied, enchanted, gazing at -her. - -"I don't want to lose them; say them in English, or French. I don't -understand everything in Italian," she murmured with a gracious pout of -disdain. - -"Why don't you understand Italian, little Lilian? You are wrong: you -should understand." - -"I am going to learn this Italian," she declared promptly. - -"When?" he asked, fascinated. - -"In a little while, in the autumn, when I am in England," she said -decisively, in a low voice. Her little gloved hand lay upon the rug: -he took it and interlaced her fingers softly in his own. - -"The days are so long in autumn and winter in my country," she said -dreamily. - -He was silent beneath her enchantment, as he pressed her hand. - -"I want to write to you for Christmas," she added, her large blue eyes -full of visions, "a nice little letter all in Italian, dear." - -"But first," he asked, enamoured and impatient, "you will write me nice -long letters in French or English?" - -"Why, of course, always," she replied, with that certainty which now -and then smote him and disturbed him, afterwards to conquer him. - -In her certainty Lilian did not ask him if he would always reply; as if -it were unnecessary to ask anything so certain and evident, as if words -served not to declare and promise a certainty. - -"Do you mean to say," he resumed, with an emotion that veiled each -accent, "do you mean to say, that that angel Lilian Temple is a little -fond of Lucio Sabini, who deserves it not?" - -"I do mean to say so," she affirmed, simply and loyally. - -Nor did Lilian Temple ask Lucio Sabini, in return, if he loved her -a little, as if she were unshaken in her conviction that Lucio was -fond of her; and to hear so once again were unnecessary. Once again -Lilian's high loyalty, her deep faith, her absolute trust, which never -having lied could not suppose a lie, moved Lucio to his depths. He felt -himself, as in the most impassioned moments of his love, another man, -transformed and remade, incapable of deceit, incapable of fraud; he -felt himself, like the girl, vibrating with sincerity and worthy of the -faith she had in him, since he was, as she was, sustained by an immense -certainty. The more tremulous became his sensibility, the more fluid -his tenderness, the more impetuous his need of offering his all, of -giving himself completely. - -"I am yours," he said solemnly in English. - -"I am yours," she replied simply. - -"Everything is so white here," she said, "ever so much whiter than down -below." - -She pointed with a vague gesture of the hand to the districts they -had left behind, to St. Moritz, Celerina, Pontresina, where the snow -of the night was already disappearing, while on the Bernina road they -were traversing, rather slowly, ever climbing to the regular pace of -the horses and the feeble tinkling of the bells, the night's snow -still remained intact. The snow covered in great tracts of whiteness -the last solitary meadows which hid the banks of rocks that the winter -avalanches had precipitated in the silent valleys; it covered in tracts -the first hills that ascended towards the loftier mountains, and united -on high the August snow with the many ancient snows of so many winters -which the summer's sun had been unable to melt, and, finally, last -night's snow had placed a new splendour over the glaciers. As Lilian -and Lucio went on their way in the grand Alpine solitude, the whiteness -increased around them; in the rarefied air the breath that escaped from -the horses' nostrils seemed a light smoke which hovered about them. - -"Oh, how everything becomes whiter," Lilian repeated, conquered by the -spectacle, "nothing is more beautiful than all this whiteness." - -"The snow resembles you rather," murmured Lucio, looking at her and not -at the landscape. - -She shook her blond head, a shadow of a smile playing on her lips. - -"Snow is destroyed in the countries where men live," she added, "but it -remains pure and intact on high." - -"Like it, you are pure," he whispered, as he gazed again at her, -enamoured. - -Now and then she flushed beneath the ardour of his glance; the blood -rushed to the roots of her blond tresses, a tender smile played about -the beautiful, chaste mouth. - -"They gave you such a beautiful name--Lilian," he told her again, with -ardent sweetness. - -"Do you really like it?" - -"How is it you were given such a beautiful name--Lilian--Lilian?" - -"It is an ordinary name in my country, in England," she replied, -speaking dreamily. - -"It is the name of a flower." - -"A great many names of flowers are used for children in my country, -in England--Rose, Daisy, Violet. My mother was called Violet--Violet -Temple." - -"But your name, the lily, is the name of an Italian flower--one of our -flowers, dear." - -"I know that," she added thoughtfully, "it is the emblem of Florence, -_your_ Florence." - -"If it is mine, it is also _your_ Florence," he exclaimed, enamoured. - -"Is everything you love and prefer also mine, dear?" she asked, fixing -him with her large eyes, so blue and loyal. - -"Everything," he exclaimed, with a burning glance. - -She paled, and the little hand that was in Lucio's shook convulsively. -A short, intense giddiness overwhelmed them, and they looked at each -other, frightened and lost. The carriage still proceeded slowly; it had -skirted the whole of the glacier of Morteratsch, afterwards leaving it -on the right, still ascending among the lofty, fearful peaks of the -Tschierva, the Bellavista, Crast' Agüzza, and lording it in their midst -in an indescribable purity, was the sovereign of the mountains, the -virgin of the mountains, the lofty and tremendous Bernina. On the left, -instead, valleys opened, surrounded by mountains less lofty, with broad -meadows still full green; at a gap in one of these, all flourishing -with vegetation, like an oasis confronting the terrible chain of the -Bernina, a country girl came towards them, offering flowers. To conquer -the agitation that kept dominating him, Lucio made the carriage stop. -Buxom and blond and rosy, the country girl offered bunches of fresh -flowers which she had gathered an hour ago, bunches of dark blue and -purple gentians, masses of Alpine orchids of a tender pink with dark -markings, and fresh edelweiss, still almost bathed in snow. - -"Here, Lilian," he resumed in a still agitated voice, "is a valley full -of flowers, the Valley of Fieno, but it is too far-away; here are its -flowers." - -And he took them all from the hands and arms of the peasant girl and -emptied them in Lilian's hands; the rug and the whole carriage were -covered with flowers, and smiling, the peasant girl bade them _adieu_ -as she jingled the money in her rough hand. Lilian pressed the flowers -to her, smelt them, and buried her face in them in her usual gentle -way, while the carriage resumed, more quickly, its way towards the -lofty Bernina Pass. - -"You have been on other occasions to the Bernina?" she asked, in a low -voice. - -"Yes, several times: I have been everywhere." - -"Also in this valley that you say is full of flowers?" - -"Yes, dear Lilian." - -"And you have given these beautiful flowers to many other women, -haven't you?" she continued, looking at him, with a shade of melancholy -in her glance. - -"What does it matter?" he exclaimed, with a vivacious nod, as if to -abolish the past. - -"You have forgotten them all," she concluded, without looking at him, -as if she were talking to herself. - -"You are _different_, Lilian," he said. - -She believed him at once and smiled at him, herself desirous of -dispersing the cloud of sadness which had passed over their souls. - -"Have you ever climbed to the top of one of those mountains? Have you -climbed the Monte Bernina, dear? Tell me everything, please." - -"I climbed two or three times, Lilian, when I was younger, bolder, -and less lazy; not right to the Bernina, dear, but to the Diavolezza -beneath the Bernina." - -"Is it far and difficult or high? Can one get there? How I envy you! It -must be so beautiful!" - -"Beautiful and sad, Lilian--very sad. It is a landscape that dazes and -contracts the heart. Up there one thinks of the many who at different -times have attempted to climb ever higher and have perished, Lilian. -Up there, too, it is such a strange country. Imagine amidst all the -whiteness a mountain completely black, called Monte Perso, and there is -also at its foot a glacier, the Perso glacier; and, strange to say, a -great space of rocks and stones, all black, which cuts the glacier, the -Isle of Perso--why, one knows not. I have told you all, Lilian." - -"I should like to go there," she added, with all the strength of her -race. - -The air became colder, as they reached the goal. The whole region -became more arid, and more outstanding in their majesty the lofty peaks -of the Palù and the Cambrena, the one completely white, the other -streaked with white and black in a peculiar palette of two colours--the -black rock and white ice. - -"Are you cold, dear?" he asked tenderly. - -"Yes, a little cold; just a little." - -"Let us get down, dear; we are almost there. We will walk to the -Hospice along the lakes." - -In helping her to descend he took her in his arms, like a child, to -place her on the ground. Involuntarily he pressed her to himself for -a moment; he saw her grow pale and he paled himself. He felt himself -losing his self-control. As they walked he gave her his arm silently; -the carriage drew away towards the Hospice of the Bernina, which could -be seen, like a far-off grey point against the diverse brightness -of the lakes. They skirted the motionless waters of the first lake; -around its shores were neither trees, nor plants, nor flowers, nor -grass. There were only stones, blackish or yellowish earth, and as -they extended their glance ahead other waters appeared, motionless, -reflecting the whiteness of the Cambrena, and the brown fillets of -rocks which cut the glacier--the deep black water of the Lago Nero, -the quite clear water of the Lago Bianco--while only a tongue of brown -earth separated the dark waters from the clear; but there were no -trees, nor flowers, nor grass. Silently the two walked on; she now and -then oppressed by her vast surroundings, so strange and lifeless. He -pressed her closer to him as he led and supported her, now and then -murmuring, as in an amorous refrain: - -"Dear, dear Lilian, dear." - -On the way they were pursuing, some carriages overtook them, going -towards the Hospice. Besides travellers, wrapped in heavy wraps, and -women in furs, the carriages were loaded with baggage. - -"They are descending to Italy," murmured Lucio. - -"I envy them," she said, as if to herself. - -"You ought not to envy anyone, dear," he repeated ardently. "Wherever -Lilian is, there is the country; because there is love." - -Like music, now tender and now violent, his words, even vague, even -imprecise, even indefinite to the questions she often asked him, were -like the music of softness and passion; his words caressed her with a -fresh breeze or ate into her heart like tongues of flame. For a moment -she closed her eyes and forgot that she had received no reply to her -question; she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be destroyed by -that flame. - -People were coming and going before the Hospice; the horses had been -taken out of three or four carriages to be fed and watered before -resuming the journey to Italy; also there were carts and carters. -Everyone, travellers, coachmen, carters, and hotel servants, were in -winter costume, and stamping their feet on the ground against the cold. -The deep grey of the hotel, which had been a Hospice for travellers, -and the brown, clear waters of the motionless lakes beneath the snows -and glaciers of the Cambrena, the Carale, the Sassal Masone, and, -further away, the yoke of the Bernina, behind which the road descended -suddenly to Italy--all had the cold and sad aspect of a winter -landscape in the high mountains, without a tree or flower. - -"Would you stay a month here with me?" Lucio asked Lilian at the door -of the hotel. - -"Yes, certainly," she replied at once, with that peculiar certainty of -hers. - -"Let us pretend that it is the first day," he whispered into her ear, -"that we are bridegroom and bride on our honeymoon." - -Again she became pale; again he felt too strong an emotion preventing -his self-control. Profoundly disturbed they passed along the narrow, -almost gloomy corridor which divided the rooms of the Hospice, and -penetrated the little reading-room, which they found invaded by a -little caravan of Germans, men and women, while the room was full of -smoke from the pipes the men were smoking. To avoid all this they -went into the vast dining-room, and around them hovered a waiter and -waitress, to ask if they were staying for the afternoon, the night, or -a week. Lucio only replied now and then with a vague smile, holding -Lilian's hand in his, more than ever enamoured, like a bridegroom. She -was silent and absorbed; the waiter and the waitress left them by one -of the windows of the room, where already those who wanted luncheon -were arriving. Behind the panes Lilian and Lucio exchanged some rare -words of childish, sentimental intimacy, rather vibrant, and pronounced -softly, with an indescribable accent, and they gazed at, perhaps -without seeing, the lofty Cambrena, black with rocks and white with -ice, and the four little lakes which almost seemed to advance from the -back of the valley and surround the grey Hospice, with their waters of -such strangely different hues. - -"Are you still cold, adored little Lilian?" - -"No, not any longer, dear; and you?" - -"I? I am on fire, dear, sweet Lily." - -"Do you find all this too sad? I believe you do not like anything sad." - -"I have no eyes for sadness, Lilian, when I am with you." - -Now, like children in love, they wandered from room to room, finding -nearly all the doors wide open. Within the beds were made and covered -with dark quilts; everything was orderly, but empty and inanimate. -Only in one room, as they looked from the threshold, they saw clothes -thrown on to chairs, books upon a writing-table, and fresh flowers in -vases. They withdrew smiling, afraid of being caught. The waiter who, -as he came and went, met them now and then in their little pilgrimage, -explained to them that since the Hospice had become an hotel, every -summer season people passed a week there or a fortnight; even that -year there had been many till a few days ago, but with the rain and -snow of the last two days many had left for Switzerland and Italy. -Now only a few still remained; but at the Hospice of the Bernina most -people passed through, travellers who were going to Vallettina or -Switzerland, and who all stopped for two or three hours to change -horses and have luncheon. - -"On some days, when it is a good season, we have a hundred to lunch," -concluded the waiter, with importance. - -"And to-day?" asked Lucio. - -"Oh, nothing, just twenty." - -"Are you hungry, Lilian?" asked Lucio, smiling at her. - -"Yes; I shall be glad of lunch." - -"Let us go, dear, and choose our table; we will place our flowers -there." - -They chose one in a remote corner of the vast dining-room, and the -banality of the table was adorned by the dark gentians, the spiked -orchids, and the fresh edelweiss; like two children, looking around -and fondling each other's hands, they filled a vase and two glasses -with them. Lucio had the two places changed; instead of facing Lilian, -he wished to have her beside him and while the waiter withdrew to -serve their lunch, seated at the little table, they were alone like -two lovers for the first time. Forgetful of everything except their -love, they began to talk, turning one to the other, their faces close -together, their words subdued, their smiles expressive and suggestive, -their glances now laughing and now ardent; their hearts and fibres -welled with the deep sweetness of the idyll and ardour of passion. In -the dining-room, already more than twenty people were lunching and -talking loudly, especially the German gathering; there was a noise of -plates and knives, with a smell of food that was diffused in the rather -heavy air of the room which was nearly always closed against the cold; -but, isolated in their corner, Lilian and Lucio paid no heed to the -others. Even they lunched: sometimes their idyll or passion guided -their actions, now graciously puerile, now full of an unconquerable -trembling, as with a smile and a glance, or a fleeting squeeze of -the hand or gesture of tenderness, they lunched like a newly married -couple on the first day of their marriage; the man seeking the woman's -glass to place his lips where she had placed hers, the woman offering -half the fruit which she had eaten, now and then forgetting to eat, to -look and smile at each other, as the waiter came and went to and fro, -silent, discreet, and indifferent, without attempting to recall them to -reality. - -At the other tables everyone had finished lunch; the Germans especially -rose noisily, the men with their congested faces, the women wearing on -their blond, yellowish hair the same masculine hats as their husbands -and fathers; but Lucio and Lilian at their table, from which the things -had been removed, allowed their coffee to grow cold in their cups, -and absently they plucked off the petals of the Alpine orchids and -edelweiss with their fingers and scattered them on the table in strange -designs. They were now alone at the little table in the corner, and -knew nothing of what was happening around them; only the silent, but -questioning and respectful presence of the waiter made them rise, after -Lucio had paid the bill. - -"It will be very cold later for the return," said the waiter -suggestively, as if he were inviting them to stay. - -A single, intense glance between them told of what they were thinking. -Agitatedly Lilian approached the window from which they had looked out -without seeing the country; beside them, on a little table, a great -book lay open, with white pages signed with signatures, mottoes, and -dates, the album of the Bernina Hospice, wherein every passer-by placed -his name. To hide her deep confusion, Lilian turned over some pages, -stooping to read, almost without understanding, some unknown name, some -words of admiration, remembrance, or regret of those who had crossed -the Bernina Pass. Suddenly she perceived that Lucio was beside her, -and that he, too, was reading; more agitated, she did not turn, as she -tried to read more attentively, and together they read a sentence in -French, with two signatures, "_Vive l'amour.--Laure et Francis_." - -"Shall we write something, Lilian?" he whispered, with his arm around -her waist. - -"Yes," she murmured. - -They bent over the book together: she wrote first, in French, in -a rather trembling handwriting, "_À toi, pour la vie, pour la -mort.--Lilian_." Promptly he wrote after her, in a firm, decisive -handwriting, "_À toi, pour la vie, pour la mort.--Lucio_," and a date. -Their glances repeated, affirmed, and swore what they had written, as -they went out of the deserted dining-room into the narrow, semi-dark -corridor, where there was no one. He kept her for a moment in the -half-light; embracing her lightly, he drew her to him, and gave her -a long kiss on the lips, a kiss of love, which she returned as well. -He felt her reel as if lost; he, too, felt himself overcome with joy. -With a supreme effort he took her hand, supported her, and led her away -to the staircase of the Hospice, and outside into the full light and -open air, where for a moment they stopped half blinded, without seeing -anything, without looking at each other, without recognising each -other, as if both were lost. - -As if an indisputable need constrained them to fly from some unknown -danger, they walked along the shores of the four little lakes, stopping -to admire the waters. They proceeded to where the tail of the Cambrena -glacier descends and winds, and they bent over the spring that gushes -from it to bathe their hands, which were on fire; they went further, -beyond the yoke and the Bernina Pass, following the carts and carriages -which were in motion; they went by a long hill, whence they saw a -flock of sheep, with their shepherd and guardian dog, proceeding -with slow steps, occasionally halting, and then resuming their way; -throughout the summer they had been in the Engadine, and now, driven -away by the cold, were descending towards Italy, towards Poschiavo. -They went forward themselves on the road to Italy, and saw the little -village of La Rosa gleaming white below. They went everywhere, tiring -their bodies and their souls. - -As the day declined they returned to the door of the Hospice, but -neither climbed the stairs again. They remained at the threshold, -exchanging some glances full of a silent and immense sadness, but not a -word opened their lips to say how immense was their grief. The carriage -was ready, and the horses were tinkling their bells; the waiter came -down, carrying rugs and cloaks and flowers. Lucio and Lilian jumped -into the carriage to return to St. Moritz Dorf. Again they looked at -the grey Hospice, which became gloomier in the declining day, in that -obscure corner of the earth, amidst its four mysterious lakes, and an -immense sadness bade farewell to that tarrying-place of an hour of -love. Then they left in silence. Gloomy and stern, with hat almost -lowered over his eyes, Lucio first became calm by degrees, while pale -and sad, beneath her white veil, Lilian, too, grew calmer. Gradually -a gentleness, ever softer and more persuasive, poured itself like -balsam over their grief and regret. They drew near to each other, -affectionately and simply; a tenderness united their hands and kept -them joined, a tenderness flowed from their few words, in their voices, -in their names pronounced now and then. A tenderness seized, kept, and -dominated them on their return journey, amid the ever-increasing gloom -of the twilight, and when they reached their goal, both were exalted by -tenderness. But Lucio Sabini was also exalted by renunciation. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -In the embrasure of a window the tall figure of Otto von Raabe was -silhouetted more darkly against the shadow of the night; he stooped a -little to reply in a low voice to the subdued and quiet questions of -Paul Léon, who was standing beside him. Both had their faces turned -towards the room; every now and then they threw a glance to the back -of it. Outside, over their shoulders, a portion of the sky shone with -stars. - -"To gather flowers?" asked the French poet, after a long silence, his -eyes apparently veiled by deep, inward thought. - -"Yes, to gather flowers, merely to gather flowers," murmured the German. - -"Flowers? What flowers?" insisted the Frenchman strangely. - -"Some beautiful flowers he was told were up there; he went to look for -them." - -"And did he find them?" - -"He found them--he always used to find them--they are still in his -hands." - -"They left them with him." - -"Of course, look," said the German, pointing to the back of the room. - -On a little white bed lay the corpse of Massimo Granata. The little -body broken by the tremendous fall from the precipice, at the skirts -of the Pizota, was piously laid out, and covered with a dark red, silk -quilt, right to the breast; and the little body of the poor rickety, -deformed man scarcely raised the covering. The head had been bandaged, -and the pinched yellow countenance was framed by the whiteness of its -lines, whose eyes, full of goodness and dreams, were closed for ever; -and even the face seemed diminished and like that of a child, dead from -some incurable disease endured since birth. The pallid hands, long and -fleshless, with knotty fingers, were crossed on the breast, and they -still clasped a little bunch of unknown Alpine flowers; they clasped -them in a last act of love over the heart that beat no more. Some long -strings of mountain flowers had been scattered loosely on the quilt, as -if to surround in a garland of flowers the corpse of Massimo Granata. -On the simple furniture of the simple room flowers had been placed -here and there in big and little vases; some were already withered, -which had been gathered two or three days before his death; others, -fresher, had been gathered recently, before his last walk. On a night -table before the humble little bed there were an ivory crucifix and two -candlesticks with two lighted candles--all placed on a white cloth. -The two electric lamps of the room had been veiled. Karl Ehbehard, the -great consumption doctor, was seated on one side at the foot of the -bed, motionless and silent, with bowed head. - -"Karl Ehbehard was the first to be told," added Otto von Raabe, shaking -his head, fixing the closed, granite-like face of the doctor with his -indescribably blue eyes. "He has known him for more than twenty years; -he loved him." - -"Was his assistance of no avail?" Paul Léon asked very softly. - -"Quite useless. Massimo had been dead for ten hours when they brought -him here." - -"And who brought him?" - -"Some shepherds up above," continued Otto von Raabe, his voice breaking -with mortal sadness. "Everyone knew him at the Alp Laret, at the Alp -Nova, at the Fiori. Everyone used to greet him and speak to him. You -know that." - -"Everywhere it was so," added Paul Léon, with lowered eyes. - -"They saw him pass early in the morning. They warned him that the -ascent was rough and dangerous. When, after so many hours, they did not -see him descending again, they climbed to look for him." - -"Those shepherds are used to that." - -"They are used to it, poor people. They searched a long time, and at -last they discovered him at the foot of a precipice. It seems that the -edge was hidden by those flowers. He leant over too much." - -"He died like a child in a fairy tale, like a child," said the poet, -his bright eyes now veiled. - -Two other people entered without making a noise the room where -Massimo Granata was sleeping the first night of his last sleep; the -one was Giovanni Vergas, an Italian gentleman, seventy years old, -with beautifully trimmed white beard and aristocratic and courteous -appearance; the other was Monsieur Jean Morel, a Frenchman of -seventy-five, thin, withered, without any skin on his face, furrowed -by a thousand little wrinkles. Without speaking, they exchanged a nod -with Karl Ehbehard and the two who were standing in the embrasure of -the window, then they went and sat on a little sofa of black horsehair, -which leant against a wall, and remained there silently. When the -news of the tragedy arrived, at seven o'clock in the evening, both -had been informed, and they had found Karl Ehbehard there, who, in -great silence, was laying out the fractured body of the poor dead man. -He washed and clothed it, then placed it quietly again on the bed, -covering it with a quilt, then the good mistress of the house, Frau -von Scheidegg, scattered two rows of flowers around the corpse, as -she wept silently. Don Giovanni Vergas and Jean Morel had remained -there a little, then they promised to return. Now they had returned -to watch with the others the body of the lover of the mountains, of -him who had given his life for his love. Paul Léon, being informed, -had arrived later than the others from Sils Maria, and he was still -asking questions to learn everything, with a trembling and sorrowful -curiosity, from Otto von Raabe, of the beautiful, dreamy soul, of the -heart sensitive and soft in spite of his rough, wild appearance. - -Slowly, with cautious steps, they approached the other two and sat -beside them, forming a little restricted circle, as they bent their -heads to breathe forth the sorrowful words of their sad conversation. -Isolated, and wrapped up in his silence, Karl von Ehbehard watched over -his friend and companion, his brother in love of the mountains. - -"How old could he be?" asked Jean Morel. - -"Sixty, perhaps," replied Giovanni Vergas. - -"He looked more," murmured Paul Léon. - -"He never was young; he never has been healthy; he always suffered so -much," explained Otto von Raabe. - -"Only here he did not suffer," concluded the French poet. - -Some minutes of silence passed, each appeared immersed in his own -intimate thoughts. - -"He has been here for many years," resumed Paul Léon. "I remember him -for such a long time, and I have been coming for twenty years." - -"And I now for ten," concluded Jean Morel. "I was one of the first -here." - -"He seems always to have lived in this furnished room. The lady of the -house was very fond of him; she and her daughter are mourning below." - -"He was poor, was he not?" asked Paul Léon. - -"Yes, poor," replied the German, "a very humble professor; for -relations he had one brother and some nephews. We have sent them a -telegram." - -They were again silent. Frau von Scheidegg entered discreetly. She -carried a great mass of fresh flowers. Approaching the circle of the -four men, she said quietly: - -"Two ladies, friends of the Herr Professor, sent them--the Misses Ford -and James. I will place the flowers at his feet." - -Advancing, and after crossing herself and saying a short prayer, the -old German woman deposited the mass of fresh flowers on the quilt, -where the two marble feet of the defunct raised the silken fabric a -little, on those feet which had taken their last steps, and which would -never more impress their tread on the grass of the high meadows, and -amidst the dust of the broken rocks. Then she crossed herself again, -and left. - -"Do you think, von Raabe, that the brother will come to fetch him away?" - -"No," replied a different voice. "No, he will not go away." - -It was Karl von Ehbehard who replied thus. He got up from his place, -joined the other four, and stood in their midst, tall and thin, -but breathing will and energy, and the others looked at him with -sympathy and admiration; for they knew his history and life. The five -worshippers of the high mountains, the five lovers of the Engadine were -united in a group; Jean Morel, who had been for forty years; Paul Léon, -the French poet, who had been for twenty; Don Giovanni Vergas, the head -of a princely Italian house, who fled the yellow sands and the blue of -Italy for the white heights of the Grissons; Otto von Raabe, the German -millionaire banker, who had all the poesy of nature and heart in his -mind, and Karl von Ehbehard, he who had found life up there, and who -was trying to give it back to others--all the little group of mountain -lovers were watching round another of them, who had been the victim of -his love, on his funeral night. - -"He will not go away," replied Ehbehard, "too much money is wanted to -take away a corpse to Italy, and the Granata are poor. Our friend will -rest here among us----" and suddenly the hard, cold voice broke. - -"We ought to give him a great procession to-morrow," exclaimed Paul -Léon, after glancing at the bandaged face of the dead man, which seemed -like that of a child. "Carry him away loaded with flowers, through the -broad roads, and give him a triumph, this hero of the mountains." - -"That will not be possible," said Karl von Ehbehard, his voice suddenly -becoming hard. - -"Why?" asked Otto von Raabe. - -"Because _they_ won't allow it," said the doctor roughly. - -"Who won't allow it? Who?" asked Paul Léon, with agitation. - -"All do not wish it; no one wishes it," replied the great doctor -bitterly. "The people in the hotels of the Dorf do not wish to see the -dead, do not wish to know of disease; they have a horror of all that. -These pleasure-seekers have for a motto, '_Evviva la vita!_' They want -to enjoy their pleasures here to the last without being disturbed; so -the authorities, hotel-keepers, and others try in every way to prevent -these pleasure-seekers from seeing a melancholy spectacle, for fear -that they will leave two or three days sooner, or even one day. When -people die here, no one knows when they are taken to the cemetery; no -one is aware of it." - -"What cruelty!" said Otto von Raabe sorrowfully. - -"What infamy!" cried Paul indignantly. - -"And shall we carry poor Massimo away thus?" asked Giovanni Vergas, -trembling with horror. - -"We shall bear him away the same as the others," said Doctor Karl -von Ehbehard gloomily; "at dawn, when all the pleasure-seekers are -sleeping, we shall carry him away on a simple bier, covered with a -white cloth, and carried on the shoulders of two strong men, without -any other funeral pomp, and we shall have to climb up through the wood -from the Dorf, along steep and unknown paths, so that no one may meet -us or see us, so there will only be us to accompany him, we who loved -him and love the same things that he loved." - -There was a lugubrious silence, and if the eyes of all those men were -not shedding tears, weeping was within their desolate souls. Meanwhile -two people entered quietly, approached the corpse, and contemplated -it--Lucio Sabini and Lilian Temple. Lucio Sabini, too, had been -warned to come and see the unfortunate man who had perished on high -in a morning of the declining August, holding in his hands a bunch of -flowers, and who had lain for hours at the foot of a precipice, and -had been brought back on a bier of tree trunks, covered by the rough -garments of the shepherds who had found him, to the bed where he had -slept for twenty beautiful seasons amidst his mountains. Lucio promised -to return, and had done so, accompanied by Lilian. The English girl -was wearing a black dress and hat, and her pure, virginal face seemed -whiter than ever, and more blond her soft hair. Side by side they gazed -at the deformed face, with its pointed cheek-bones and large, pallid -mouth, the face that had suffered so much and had never had peace and -joy save amid the lofty peaks, near the sky, in silent, benignant -solitude, amid the aroma of trees and the fragrance of leaves and -flowers. - -"Poor, poor Massimo," said Lucio, as if to himself. - -"Do not weep for him," said the firm, soft voice of Lilian beside him, -"you should not weep for him." - -He questioned her with his glance. - -"He died for his passion and his dream; we ought to envy him, and not -weep for him," said the girl, seriously and sincerely. - -She added no more. They had now joined the other five in a single group -at the back of the death chamber. - -Karl Ehbehard said to them: - -"We will accompany him through the Waldpromenade, from St. Moritz -Dorf towards Chassellas, to the cemetery of St. Moritz Bad, to the -little solitary cemetery amidst the woods and meadows, beneath the -gentle Suvretta, opposite the majestic Margna, in front of the lakes -of Silvaplana and Sils. There we will bury him among the humble -Engadiners, and among those strangers who come here from other -countries to die, as he came." - -Lilian gave Lucio a sweet, expressive glance, as if to remind him how -in that place, in the soft summer twilight, they had known each other; -and he remembered and smiled, sadly and sweetly. - -"He will sleep there, like so many others who have died here, without -anyone being aware of it," added the doctor, relapsing into his -thoughts and dreams. - -The English girl drew near to him softly. - -"You need not weep for him to-morrow or to-day, Doctor," she said in -a quiet, soft voice; "I am sure that he desired to be buried there in -the little cemetery; I am sure that it is the best place for his long -rest." - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -After the snow of the 26th of August a pure sky was resplendent in vain -in the Upper Engadine, an exaltation for the eye and the imagination; -in vain a wondrous golden sun enlivened everything, in vain did an -even more victorious and absorbing fascination emanate from the whole -countryside, and in vain the beauty of things became more absorbing -and penetrating. Everything was in vain for a crowd that wished to -depart, and nothing availed to keep it now that it was bent on fleeing. -It was a crowd that no longer had eyes, or feelings, or nerves, with -which to see and feel and respond; it was a crowd that was blind, deaf, -and inert to every joy-bearing impression, dominated and absorbed as -it was by its desire of departing. With the same impetus with which -it had arrived from all parts and every distant country a month ago, -had violently and feverishly invaded hotels, _pensions_, and villas, -filling them to overflowing, had peopled the most remote and deserted -corners, had placed its outposts on the most impervious slopes and -climbed the loftiest peaks: with this same irresistible impetus by -which it had conquered and fashionably devastated the silence, calm, -and poesy of the Upper Engadine, that crowd was now turning its back, -departing, and fleeing, without anyone or anything availing to delay -its departure for an hour or a day. But the departure did not seem like -a departure, it resembled a precipitous flight, a _sauve qui peut_, as -if there had been a summons to some lofty duty or to the enjoyment of -some great pleasure. - -For a week the little station of St. Moritz Dorf had been besieged by -the crowd, to book seats in _wagons-lits_ in the expresses of the great -international lines for Paris, London, Brussels, Berlin, Frankfort, and -it would leave the station disconsolate, because for days the places -in the _wagons-lits_ on all lines had been taken; for at the mere idea -of being forced to continue its sojourn for a day or an hour in the -Engadine, the despairing crowd caused it to rain telegrams, offering to -pay to have the _wagons-lits_ and first-class carriages increased, in a -state of agitation at every little obstacle that hindered its departure -and flight. For a week the post office of St. Moritz Bad had been -hedged in by a crowd booking places in the mail-coaches that descended -twice a day into Italy, but so many people wanted to leave that places -were lacking and every day the office added extra carriages, but even -these were insufficient; so the exasperated crowd that wished to -descend pell-mell into Italy booked special carriages at a high fee, -just to get away on the day and the hour, without giving a glance -behind. For a week conversations overlapped. - -"I have my places for Tuesday evening...." - -"I have telegraphed to Zurich...." - -"I am expecting a telegram from Basle...." - -"We hired a carriage from Tiraboschi to descend...." - -"Frau Goertz has given up her places in the _wagons-lits_ to me: she is -returning to Italy by carriage from the Bernina...." - -"If I am unable to find places in _wagons-lits_ I shall descend to -Chiavenna, and go from thence to the frontier at Chiasso." - -Never had the Upper Engadine been so beautiful. Its surrounding colours -and its breezes had indescribable charms in those last days of August. -It seemed to change its aspect a hundred times, each more graceful -than the other, it was a medley of the brightest colours, it appeared -to be swimming in a divine, crystalline air, and to be poised amidst -the most vivid freshness. So sensitive souls, hearts secretly pierced, -spirits being poisoned by slow poison--some rare soul, some rare heart -and spirit--at such exquisite beauty felt themselves trembling with a -new, mysterious life, felt themselves in those last days healed of all -their old bleeding wounds and freed from gall and bitterness, as if a -powerful and unknown medicine had performed such a miracle. But when -even for them the hour of departure drew near, a great regret, a great -grief, and an immense nostalgia oppressed and suffocated their hearts. - -But if by chance a long sigh of nostalgia for the Engadine land escaped -their oppressed hearts, where they had found a balm for all their -wounds, if this sigh became a word or an expression, scandalised, -the crowd would turn and brutally tell the poor man or woman that it -was ridiculous, yes, ridiculous, to want to remain even a single day -longer. Brutally the crowd reduced to silence the timid man or tender -woman who would still have liked, in those few beautiful September -days, to console, heal, and free themselves amidst the grace, purity, -and simplicity of the Engadine. Silently timid man and tender woman -bowed the head, expressing all the grief of broken dreams, the -nostalgia for things that would have consoled, healed, and freed them -and which they must implacably leave. - -Implacably the crowd bustled, racketing everywhere, with hurry, -anxiety, and despair, to arrange its departure. In hotel rooms there -was a dull and continuous shock of boxes being put down and lifted, -of heavy luggage being filled and strapped, of opening and closing -of wardrobes, with a continuous, nervous ringing of electric bells. -The coming and going in corridors and _salons_ of managers, waiters, -chambermaids, servants, and porters was vertiginous; the offices of the -hotels were in a continuous bustle, getting ready bills and cashing -money at all hours; the porters no longer had a minute's peace, taking -a hundred orders, at the same time, for a hundred things incidental to -departure, and every evening, at the great desk of the head porter, on -a long black board, written in chalk, were the numbers of the rooms -which would be free on the following day, and the number of passengers -who would be leaving. Joyfully, brutally, the crowd jostled before the -blackboard and read there that a part of them, an ever greater part, -would be leaving to-morrow by such and such a train, by such and such a -post-carriage. - -"Twenty-seven people left this morning." - -"To-morrow, see, thirty-eight are leaving." - -"On Sunday is the great departure from here, seventy-two people." - -From day to day the last words were said, the last acts accomplished -rapidly and anxiously. In the hotels the crowd surged round the -telephone boxes impatiently waiting its turn to telephone to Zurich, or -Geneva, or Basle, giving orders, changing itineraries and instructions, -receiving affirmative, or adverse replies. The crowd surged in the -roads at the doors of the five or six banks, to withdraw the balance -of their last letters of credit, to send away their last sum of money; -they surged from shop to shop, to buy the last pretty and useful -things from the Engadine, and the last souvenirs of St. Moritz and the -Grissons, to take away for relations and friends; they surged at the -post office to expedite the last registered letter, to stamp the last -picture post cards, to send the last telegrams. But the crowd surged -more or less compactly, with one object only in every place, from the -little wooden gallery where the music plays in the morning, near the -"Kurhaus," to the larger gallery at the new springs by the "Stahlbad," -while the serenade from _Pagliacci_ resounded sadly; they surged from -the _confiserie_ of De Gasparis to the tea-rooms of the "Kulm," from -the pastry shop of Hanselmans to tea at the Golf Club, as they came -and went on foot or tram, with the single idea of looking for friends -to say good-bye to them. Every moment at these and other places, -beneath the beautiful porticoes of the Bad, at the Inn bridge, before -the vestibules of the hotels, on the footpaths of the Dorf, at the -carriage door, there were meetings, little cries of joy, feigned sighs, -greetings and leave-takings. - -"... I will look you up." - -"... Of course I will come." - -"... We leave this evening." - -"... At Paris within three weeks." - -"... To-morrow at Lucerne, on Tuesday at Geneva." - -"... At Varrenna, on the 15th of September." - -Early in the morning horses pawed the ground and tinkled their little -bells before the main doors of the hotels, to warn those who were to -descend in special carriages to Italy. Before the post office, the -ordinary and special post-carriages were drawn up in a line, one behind -the other, while postilions busied themselves around them, and porters -continuously sought out and piled up fresh luggage on the carts which -followed the carriages. Everywhere there was a rapid movement, a great -hurrying of those who were setting out at this early hour, who had few -friends and acquaintances and an indescribable anxiety to get away, -speeded at the hotel door only by the very sleepy under-secretary, -speeded at the post office merely by the under-porter, leaving without -companions and without flowers, hurriedly, securing themselves in their -carriages and settling themselves comfortably, without a glance at the -country they were leaving, without a farewell as they went on their -way. Amidst the cracking of postilions' and coachmen's whips and the -tinkling of bells they went on their way tranquilly and serenely, now -that they had started for the Maloja, the Val Bregaglia--and Italy. - -The others set out in carriages, much later, towards Italy, at ten -or eleven, those who were in an immense hurry to fly, but who had to -take leave of so many people in the hotels, greet so many friends -on the square, return thanks and accept and render homage, receive -flowers, give _bonbonnières_, all with an increasing anxiety which -worldly politeness did not succeed in concealing, with a joyful -excitement which was hidden by a false regret, as if to console those -who were still remaining for two or three days, and who had no need -of consolation, since they in their turn would leave. So on one side -and the other words of farewell tried in vain to be sorrowful, though -as a matter of fact the lady who was about to leave was secretly glad -that she was being surrounded by this homage for the last time, and -the man was secretly glad to be rid of another of his relations in -the high mountains. The husband for private reasons, good and bad, -was glad to be going elsewhere, and the children were at the height -of joy and mischief, as was the case every time they changed ground. -A little crowd surrounds the carriage; hats are lifted once more, the -horses spring forward: the travellers wave their gloved hands, veils -flutter, bells tinkle, and they are away over the Inn bridge, towards -the Maloja, the Val Bregaglia, and Italy. Other carriages are with -them which have arrived from the Dorf hotels, Campfer, Silvaplana, and -Sils, and all unite to form a cortège of noisily rolling carriages, -of trotting horses, cracking whips, tinkling bells, fluttering veils, -without any of those who were on their way giving a glance to the -mountains, lakes, and meadows that they are leaving behind them, -without any act of farewell for the things around them. - -Those who had just taken leave of them, bringing flowers and gifts with -a wish for a pleasant journey, would remain for a few minutes to talk -quietly without the least melancholy, afterwards to disperse among the -ever less frequented roads of the Bad. They went to see about their -final affairs, for within a day or two they, too, would be far-away. -Many were getting ready for the principal trains leaving that day or -on the morrow--the two daily expresses whose departure from St. Moritz -Dorf took place amidst the terrible hurrying of the crowd, which at -last left for all the countries of the world. Away, away, they went -from the Upper Engadine without a glance or a nod of farewell--for the -train pierced two tunnels in succession and was immediately at and -beyond Samaden--already _distrait_ and forgetful, already anxious and -longing for another life elsewhere, where their fantasies, nerves, -and feelings should have other visions, other impressions, and other -sensations. - -Carriages and omnibuses arrived at a sharp trot from St. Moritz Bad -and St. Moritz Dorf, full of people who were turning their backs with -such hurry and furor. The pretty, clean little station was groaning -with people, was heaped with piles of enormous luggage, and amidst -ladies, men and children waved baskets and bunches of flowers, baskets -of fresh fruit tied with ribbons and bows, large _bonbonnières_ of -Swiss chocolate--all gifts and souvenirs for those who were leaving -from those who, impatient, were secretly waiting the brief flight of -the hours to go in their turn. Ah, these accompaniments of flowers -and gifts, what a last essay of worldly rivalry! What a steeplechase -between Madame and Miss, each hoping to have more than the other, more -than their dearest friend and dearest enemy, hoping to be surrounded -by the most followers at the station--by a really big group, while -the others should have only five, or six, or eight, but no more. It -was a profitable business in these last few days for the florists, -confectioners, and vendors of souvenirs. There were retinues of -bouquets, of baskets and bunches of flowers amongst the crowd at the -little station, flowers wrapped in wrappings of tissue paper were -held in the hands of ladies, children, and maids, an occasional bunch -pressed to the bosom, the most precious of the bundle of flowers! -Ah, how the ladies who were leaving counted them! How they paled -with envy the day on which the Marquise de Vieuxcastel left, as they -counted, astonished and irritated, the flowers in a hundred shapes that -followed her in a floral crown, accompanied by friends, relations, -and servants--the Marquise who was Grace personified, to whom all -the ladies gave forty-five or fifty years and all the men thirty; -nevertheless, she was full of beauty and youth from the depths of her -beautiful young soul. And what deep anger on the part of little Madame -d'Allart, when at the station she perceived that at least four of -the bouquets she expected were missing, while, as a matter of fact, -the pale, blond, reserved and thoughtful Comtesse de la Ferté Guyon -had more than she--the tower of ivory! the tower of ivory to whom no -one dare pay court! And what grotesque anger on the part of Madame -Mentzel, who arrived at the station with but five followers and seven -bouquets of flowers, one of which she had bought herself, at the sight -of floral garlands that were clasped on all sides by the crowd, by all -these ladies of the "Palace," even by the Comtesse Pierre de Gérard, -_la grande Comtesse_, the noble lady of the self-conscious and almost -statuesque posings, with a face that seemed almost that of a Sphinx, -pure, ardent, and silent. Although she was considered the proudest and -most distant of that assembly, even she was surrounded by friends, and -Madame Mentzel went about exclaiming, from one end to the other of the -little station, that unfortunately all her friends had left before her. - -Even in their departure these ladies of the "Palace" were created to -exasperate and annoy those from other hotels--all the poor profane! -They left--these Olympians--with an even more Olympic air than usual, -with a contempt that was totally _distrait_, with a serene pride, -so much so that it seemed as if a cloud, mythologically speaking, -should bear them away and not a trivial train. Each had thirty or -forty packages to which the railway and railway people servilely gave -preference. They had reserved carriages and saloons for themselves -alone. Madame Azquierda was followed by eight or ten servants, who -carried a hundred things into her reserved carriage--pillows, her -bridge table, her table to prepare lunch, a bird-cage of thirty rare -birds: Madame de Aguilar travelled with two English detectives to watch -over her jewels and took with her four guests whom she was transporting -to the shores of the North Sea, even to Heligoland, where her yacht -of two thousand tons, _La Gitana_, would take them, together with -other guests, for a cruise in the North Sea. In fact, these Olympian -ladies of the "Palace," as if to damn the profane, were leaving for, -shall we say, the most unexpected countries; none of them, just to -be different, were making for the usual, banal places. One was going -to Munich to hear a cycle of Mozart's works; another was going to -England and the Scotch lakes, another to Bruges la Morte; another was -going to Umbria, to Perugia; another in automobile to Bohemia--each -to a strange place, for strange reasons, through artistic, literary, -or æsthetic snobbishness, or perhaps--_perhaps_--through real taste, -but certainly they were making a different journey, looking for a -different atmosphere, sighing after different impressions. In fact, -Madame Lawrence, whom many had dubbed a Jewess, who never went to -church, to do something odd, was going on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of -Lourdes. Biting her lips, Donna Mercédès de Fuentes, after inquiring -from everyone, learnt that no one from the "Palace" was coming with -her to Lucerne for _la_ _grande semaine_. It was enough to drive one -mad, and only Don Giorgio Galanti could console her a little on the -day of departure, for he had left over a little bunch of four splendid -roses--how one knows not--that had found no billet; he offered them to -her, so she arranged a meeting with him for October in Paris at the -Elysée Palace. - -But in spite of the Olympian disdain of the ladies at the station the -hour of departure, with the crowd that thronged more densely, grew -vertiginous. Waves of movement in every sense passed over the crowd: -a noise first dull, then higher and higher, became a deafening din, -amidst the crashing of carts, the rumbling of baggage, the thousand -voices and calls, the arrival of fresh carriages and unloading of -fresh luggage, and over all was the invincible anxiety to clamber into -the train, to close the eyes, to be transported far, far-away from -the Engadine, not even putting the head out to see how everything was -disappearing to right and left, as if now the Engadine were a dream -that was over, as if it had never been either reality or dream. - -The sky was of a sapphire blue--of the deep sapphire of the east--over -the Engadine, liquid gold was the sun, like limpid rock crystal the -atmosphere, like ambrosia the air, the dawn pink with a thousand rosy -tints, the noontide trembling with light and heat, the twilight of a -thousand shades of purple, and the nights palpitated indescribably -with stars, as never before. Amidst such splendour and softness its -roads were thinned of passersby, and no longer clouds of dust arose; -the paths and little white tracks amongst the immense meadows were no -longer crossed except by few people, and for hours and hours by no -one. The little donkeys with their red plush saddles, which had taken -ladies and children for outings and excursions, had disappeared from -the square before the public gardens; slowly donkeys and drivers had -taken the Bernina road to return to Vallettina. Before the Kursaal of -the Maloja the Comese boats of the lake of Sils had been beached; the -electric launch on the lake of St. Moritz had ceased its trips, and -was drawn up to its winter garage; the gondoliers had gone with their -gondolas to Italy. One day the music played no more in the little -wooden gallery by the Hôtel Kurhaus, another day there was no music in -the great gallery at the "Serpentquelle," and gradually the musicians -began to gather together, to pack their luggage, and set off for the -Italian lakes and Milan. Some of the shops of the Bad closed towards -the end of August; the kiosks for jewellery, lace, and flowers lowered -their iron shutters and all Tiraboschi's coachmen hurried to leave -with their horses by easy stages towards Italy, Lombardy, Piedmont, -and the French frontier, to arrive after a couple of months at Nice -and Monte Carlo, where they would do service for the greater winter -season. Gradually waiters and chambermaids, major-domos and grooms -left, and there remained but the staff, which, within a week or ten -days, would also have disappeared. At certain hours of the day there -was a deep silence; no longer at night did the "Kulm," the Grand Hotel, -the "Palace," the "Schweizerhof," flame with their lights reflected -in the lake, but only a feeble, flickering light threw some slender -spark thereon. A great peace, not melancholy, now spread over the -Upper Engadine; a solemn calm stretched to its farthest borders. Above -mountains, fields, lakes, in almost deserted country roads, solitude -and silence was enhancing the beauty of the Upper Engadine--its -incomparable, intangible beauty. - -During the last week the little affairs of love and passion, of big -and little flirts, had strangely changed in aspect and substance. -Nearly all had become more intense, as if the imminent separation had -caused their modest flames to flash forth, rendering more serious -and sad the gay caprice of a month. Every morning in the pine woods, -full of the freshest perfumes, in the little paths one met nothing -but amorous couples, some silent and slow, with lowered eyes, some -rapid and agitated in their conversation, and on the seats in the -little woods, and by the lake only flirting couples were to be seen, -some melancholy, and contemplating with distracted eyes the even more -solitary landscape, others exchanging long, significant glances. In -front of the windows of Faist's library, amongst the Sorrento woods -and tortoiseshell of Pasquale Gallone, at florists', at kiosks where -the picture post cards were on sale, these couples of every age and -nation and condition stopped to look for a book, buy a little present, -exchange bouquets of flowers and post cards, pressing their hands -suggestively, after a sentimental exchange. But these meetings and -exchanges of little pledges happened at all hours till late at night, -even in the vestibules, halls, and _salons_ of the large hotels. There -was not a corner unoccupied, not a divan that did not accommodate two -persons, not a table at which two heads were not bent, while a gold -pencil or silver pen raced rapidly over the page of an open volume, -on the white pages of a volume of souvenirs. Heads were raised, a -long, melancholy, and passionate glance between the twain expounded -the motto, the name, and the date. There was now less dancing in the -ballrooms, and only a few courageous couples gyrated to the last tunes -of the orchestra; but the love-making increased even more, couples -sat side by side, always conversing in a low voice, heeding not the -calls of the "Boston" and "two-step." Couples were in the embrasures -of windows and verandah, or promenading in the farthest corridors or -before the buffet, drinking together a drink of the same colour, each -eating a pastry of the same shape; couples withdrew to the _salon_, -the billiard and reading-rooms, pretending to interest themselves -in things they saw not; only to get far-away. Wherever one could -take a cup of tea, in hotels, _cafés_, restaurants, above at the -_Unteralpina_, below at the _Meieri_, everywhere pairs of flirts were -seated at the tables; and the tea smoked invitingly and in vain in the -cups which the absent and absorbed couples forgot to sip. Everywhere -mothers and fathers, relations and tutors, as with final complacency -they thought that to-morrow, perhaps, all would be over, and not -wishing to sadden the last days, pretended more than ever to see and -know nothing, not to be aware of anything or understand. They were the -last concessions of maternal indulgence, which preferred not to exalt -or exasperate the last meetings, the last glances and hand-claspings. - -In glances and words, in scribbled mottoes and hand-squeezes, in some -fleeting kiss exchanged at the back of a deserted room, behind the -pages of a large illustrated paper or the hedge of the tennis-court, -there was always a promise and an oath of eternal love and fidelity. -Who did not promise? Who did not swear? The Comtesse di Durckeim, -the eccentric Hungarian, smiling bitterly on the last day, told her -women friends that she was bound by an everlasting oath to five of her -suitors, and that she had given them tryst in five different countries, -while she herself would go to a sixth country in search of an unknown -lover--_l'inconnu, ma chère amie, l'inconnue, celui que j'aime toujours -plus que les autres_. Lia Norescu had given at least ten promises and -received ten solemn oaths--the astonishing girl with a soul full of -ashes and poison--but as a matter of fact she left with only one flirt, -an elderly, wealthy gentleman, who, perhaps, would have married her, -but she was subtle and elusive, and would not let herself be taken; -another flirt, a youth whom she liked very much, was waiting for her -at Ostend, a handsome youth, who pretended to be rich, but _que_ -_faire_? Don Giorgio Galanti, the fascinating, astute Italian, had -sworn eternal fidelity to numerous flirts at the Bad, the Dorf, and -Pontresina; but he went to join an enchanting woman whom he loved at -the Semmering, near Vienna, and who loved him, but who could only meet -him two or three times a year for a single day at a time, in far-away -and different districts, a real romance, which he concealed beneath his -cynical aspect of _viveur_. The Marquise d'Allart, small, exquisite, -gracefully corrupt, believing neither what was told her nor what she -said, gathered promises and took oaths in a half-pretty and sentimental -tone, with a veil of melancholy in her voice; and later, when alone in -her room, full of little gifts and flowers, when she was to sleep her -last night in the Engadine, she laughed cruelly at herself and others, -showing her fierce little teeth to her mirror. - -Madame Lawrence, indifferent, unfeeling, listened to promises and -oaths, and gathered them with an expressive smile, but she made none in -exchange as now and then she uttered some banal word, perhaps purposely -insipid. Once again her suitors and flirts were indignant at her want -of feeling, and some of them took their leave, deciding not to run -after her or to see her no more; others, though angry, believed that -time and other encounters and opportunities would pierce the heart -of this woman who was too beautiful, and disguised their feelings. -The other professional beauty, the divine Miss Miriam Jenkyns, was -even more terrible in her indifference, since she tranquilly rejected -promises and oaths, declared against the inutility of the lies, and -the vacuity of these sentimental forms, and beautiful, imperturbable, -Olympian, but perhaps hugging to her heart a secret that was torturing -and killing her, she discouraged, repressed, and settled all her -suitors and flirts, carrying her mystery behind her pale, pure brow. - -Who did not promise? Who did not swear? Amidst sylvan perfumes, along -the shores of the lakes, amidst the fields where the last flowers -of summer still bloomed, in flower-clad gardens, in ballrooms, in -reading-rooms, in solitary terraces, on white verandahs where the moon -was contemplated, more especially on the last evening and morning, at -the last moment, before a carriage whose horses were pawing the ground -impatient to start, before the closing doors of the train, lovers, -flirts, and suitors, a little pale, a little moved, promised in a low -voice, made oath subduedly even if convinced they were lying; even if -cynical they were moved. Here and there one was deeply moved, taken and -conquered, by pure sentiments and a sincere love. - -On a clear morning the handsome youth, the tall, blond, elegant Pole, -Ladislaus Woroniecki, with the dreamy eyes, left for his own country; -he was in love with the beautiful, fragile invalid, Else von Landau, -who was remaining in the Upper Engadine, having decided to live and -grow well, and who would remain there for a year or two. She had -accompanied him to say good-bye at the station, and the two held each -other's hands without caring for the public. Their loving eyes spoke a -true promise, and a true oath, which they would maintain. - -Miss Ellis Robinson was leaving for Paris, the charming American old -maid of forty; her Italian flirt, the gracious Don Carlo Torriani, who -had followed her with courteous obstinacy, besieged her with lively -but sincere court, striving to make her renounce her part of _vieux -garçon_--this Italian lover--"_le beau Torriani beau pour moi_," as -she smilingly spoke of him--suddenly understood that as she promised -him to return soon to Italy, certainly in November, promising him -_"d'y penser un peu ... à cette chose ... seulement un peu_," as she -smiled no more, as she looked at him seriously, that the charming old -maid of forty would keep her vow. Vows and promises which were true, -vows and promises which were half true, and vows and promises which -were false, each man and woman uttered them on those last clear nights -and limpid mornings--cynics, sceptics, indifferents, ingenuous, or -impassioned, all felt a dull agitation disturbing them, all tried in -vain to control themselves and to laugh and smile. Only those who had -had a caprice, a flirtation, a little affair of passion, or love, those -who had known how to play with love or whom love had mocked, those who -had been chained for a short time, or those who were chained for ever, -they only, even the most sceptical and most superficial--and much more -so those with feeling heart and soul--experienced the sharp bitterness -of having to leave that country, were pierced by the nostalgia for all -they were abandoning, and turned to gaze at for the last time, to smile -at and bless for the last time the Upper Engadine. - -Divine Engadine, beloved, adored, blessed by all those who have -discovered the face of love and perhaps of happiness. While the -pleasure-seekers forgetfully left her without regret, seeking other -surroundings with other pleasures, with an inextinguishable thirst -that inundated the hearts and souls, while the snobs left without -understanding anything, diseased with snobbishness as they were, and -anxious to find other circles where they could abandon themselves -to their ridiculous infirmity; while the vicious and corrupt fled, -shrugging their shoulders, annoyed, in fact, because they had been -unable to develop, as they believed and hoped, their vice and -corruption; while the indifferent, from whom everything glides -away, left without an impression or a recollection, while all those -pleasure-seekers, snobs, the vicious, corrupt, and indifferent were -dragged along by the same vortex to live elsewhere the same life, while -for all of them the magnificent beauty of things and the majesty of the -deserted heights had been useless and vain--only those who had loved, -for a day, for an hour, for ever in the Engadine, took her away with -them in their hearts as a sweet, ineffaceable memory. They delighted in -her as the country of their dearest poesy, they shut her up in their -fantasy, as the purest of their dreams, they blessed her in the name -of their love. The divine Engadine had offered all her most precious -treasure to them, even to those seized by a light caprice, even to -those transported by a little flirtation in a summer night in the -high mountains, even to lovers' tears, even to those who must forget -everything at once: the divine Engadine had given to those men and -women all her dearest gifts. Divine Engadine! Her winding paths amongst -the soft verdure of the meadows had felt the light steps of lovers -who had gone along them in forgetfulness of every other human thing; -her shady paths amid the salient woods had given their odoriferous -freshness to the couples which had traversed them, holding arm or -hand; the small singing waters of the brooks hidden amidst grass and -rocks had murmured to lovers' ears the music of gaiety and caress; the -great, motionless, and shining waters of the lakes had opened before -the rocking boats which bore the lovers; had brilliantly reflected the -faces of those who had curiously gazed into them from the bank; and the -lofty mountain had gathered the more daring, who, in joyous desire of -peril, bore their love up there, towards the white and terrible peaks. -All her favours--light, flowers, and perfumes--the Upper Engadine had -conceded to those who loved her. She had only been beautiful, pure, -luminous, the fount of health and life to her old admirers of half a -century, of thirty and twenty years, and one of them she had pressed -to her bosom for ever in a mortal embrace; only to the humble sick who -had come there to seek peace, solitude, and strength. And for those who -would never return again, in spite of their nostalgia, as for those -who would return the following year, in sentimental pilgrimage, the -Upper Engadine remained for them, with all her precious treasures and -admirable gifts, a country of well-being and dreams; and later, they, -on hearing her name or seeing her outlines on a post card, or hearing -mention of some high peak, would experience a tremor of inconsolable -regret. - -Thus in these last days they were passing together in the Upper -Engadine, Mabel Clarke and Vittorio Lante, in spite of the happy -certainty of their love and future, in spite of the fact that they were -going thence together to Paris, where Mrs. Annie Clarke was feverishly -anxious to arrive, requiring a stay of at least six weeks there for all -her dresses and hats--thirty dresses and sixty hats for herself and -daughter--before setting out for America; in spite of the certainty -that in New York the great parent, the great John Clarke would at -once consent to the marriage of his daughter with Don Vittorio Lante, -Prince of Santalena (there was the title in the family), because John -Clarke loved his daughter, and would, like every good American, respect -her wish; in spite of all that was smiling on their youth and troth, -every now and then they looked at the country where they had known -each other, where they had grown fond of each other, and a light cloud -obscured their eyes. Their young nerves vibrated with the fullness -of life, and absorbed the deep pleasure of being young, healthy, and -of loving: but in the presence of the places where their stay in the -high mountains had unfolded itself, in its episodes, now gay, now -sentimental, they experienced a feeling of unexpected melancholy. Mabel -Clarke did not want Vittorio to love her too much _all'italiana_, as -she said, that is, with currents of vague melancholy, with mysterious -languors, obscure currents of sadness which characterise Italian -love; she did not like that--the frank, lively, American girl, all -expansiveness, and without secret comers in her heart or secret -thoughts in her mind. But every now and then she was dragged down into -that soft, sentimental whirlpool. If they passed before the English -library of the Dorf, where they had met the first time; if once again -they crossed the wood of Charnadüras where, a trifle jestingly, they -had spoken the first words of love; if they renewed the walk round the -lake where one day he had expressed more vigorously and ardently the -fascination by which she subdued him; if for a moment they gazed into -the dark but limpid night from the balconies of the "Palace," with its -memories of other nocturnal contemplations; if on the return from the -Maloja they noticed from the carriage the sunset girdle with its veils -Crestalta and Villa Story; if they saw again a turn of the road, a -corner of a room--the slow whirlpool of amorous sadness engulfed them -both. They mourned for the Engadine which they would shortly leave, -they even mourned for her when jesting and smiling at St. Moritz Dorf -station, whence they left together, and where the departure of Mrs. -Clarke and her daughter caused a bustle, anxiety, and despair in all; -where all the friends and acquaintances had come to provide them with a -triumphal departure, with cheers and good wishes--they mourned for the -Engadine although they were going towards their happiness. While the -train entered the tunnel opposite the foaming white cascade of the Inn, -Mabel Clarke extricated herself from the slow mental whirlpool, and -said to Vittorio Lante: - -"We shall never love each other in another land as we have in the -Engadine." - -"In Italy," he replied, serene and confident. - -"Ah, in Italy," she murmured, a little drearily. - -Lilian Temple and Lucio Sabini had prolonged their stay in the Engadine -through all that charming first week of September, which had rendered -the beauty of the country more intense and penetrating. As by an -enchantment it had held them bound, in forgetfulness of all other -surroundings. - -Every day the peace and silence increased around them, and on them -the enchantment worked more profoundly. When Lilian timidly spoke of -their departure she saw Lucio's face disturbed with mortal sadness. -She became silent, and remained yet a day, and again another; while -Miss Ford waited, calm and patient. At last, one day, the 6th of -September, Lucio asked permission to accompany the two ladies on a -visit they proposed making, after leaving the Engadine, to Berne, -to old Berne, the historical, true Swiss city, whither go neither -worldlings nor snobs, but where it is possible to pass two or three -days of tranquillity in touch with an ancient world of art and poesy. -He asked hesitatingly, trembling at the fear of a refusal, to be -allowed to accompany them still further, to Basle, where they wished to -stop again, to grey Basle, where Hans Holbein left his best pictures, -and where Nietzsche taught philosophy. And nothing had been more -torturing for him than the moment in which he waited for the reply of -the two ladies, although the reply came rapid, frank, decisive, and -affectionate, filling him with joy which he knew not how to conceal, -which he read in Lilian's eyes and smile, like his own. So from that -land where they had arrived from different countries and directions, -with different souls and hearts, from that land where destiny had -strangely brought them together, with hand clasped in hand they left -together, as if they were to journey thus all their lives. Now and then -Lilian's eyes were fixed on the horizon of mountains towering towards -the sky, but they seemed to see nothing, being absorbed by their -interior vision; Lucio Sabini saw nothing except the dear face and dear -person of Lilian beside him, and only a confused regret in the depth -of their hearts, just a little gnawing sorrow possessed them on the -morning they left with Miss May Ford for Berne. - -On the morning of departure it was already calmer at the station, -because the crowd had now fled in every direction, by every line, -because silence reigned in the valleys and in the two little villages -of St. Moritz; because only those remained who were allowing themselves -some days of calm and comfort before leaving for the large, stifling, -noisy cities. Silently, and a little pale, Lilian followed with quiet -steps her two travelling companions, who were busy with the details of -departure. She was wearing a thick white veil, and as on the evening of -the dance at the "Kulm," she had in her hand three white roses which -Lucio had given her as a souvenir. Silent and pale, she got into the -train and stood as she watched to see if Lucio were following; pale -and silent she sat in a corner by a window, watching the hill of the -Dorf and the plain of the Bad below, and the beautiful lake that unites -them on its banks. Her friend and companion seated herself in another -corner, and opened a large English newspaper, while Lucio silently -settled the luggage. With a feeble whistling the train departed and -entered the tunnel along the gloomy gorge of the Inn; but Lilian -still kept her head turned to the window, a little bowed. Uncertain -and embarrassed by the presence of May Ford, Lucio had not dared to -approach Lilian; but at last, unable to resist, he drew near to her, -calling her twice, and touching her hand and the roses, and then he -perceived that the roses were bedewed with tears. He bent towards her -ear and said in a firm voice: - -"Lilian, you mustn't cry; you mustn't suffer." - -Simply and courageously she ceased to weep, smiled a moment, and -replied: - -"That is true. I mustn't cry and I mustn't suffer." - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -In the rather gloomy ante-chamber, papered as it was in old green -myrtle, and austerely furnished in dark carved wood, the electric light -was lit, but shaded by a milky, opaque globe. Francesco, the valet, -silent, discreet, correct as usual, helped his master, Lucio Sabini, -to take off his coat and freed him of hat, stick, and gloves. Lucio -entered with a more than ever tired and bored appearance, with a pale -and contracted face. In a quick, colourless voice he asked: - -"Are there any letters?" - -"One; I put it on the small table." - -Lucio Sabini experienced a fleeting hesitation before he entered his -own apartment, which was a vast room where the shade of dusk was -spreading from three broad windows, two of which looked out on the -Lungarno Serristori and the third on to a little square, so that the -dark red, green, and maroon of the roomy, deep furniture--arm-chairs -and sofas in English leather--merged into the single tint of shadow, -and mixed with the mahogany, with an occasional gilt fillet, of the -large bookcases and big and little tables. Here and there only the -whiteness of a china vase, the gleam of a silver figure, the brightness -of a statue of Signa's were to be distinguished. But in spite of the -gloom which the dying day at the end of February caused in the room, -the oblong envelope of the letter shone clearly. - -Slowly he advanced amongst the furniture, making for a large arm-chair -behind the writing-table, without lifting his eyes from the whiteness -of the letter. He threw himself into the chair, overcome, holding -the letter before him without touching it--and some minutes passed -thus. Suddenly he gave a start, sat up in his chair, put his hand on a -switch, and the electric light was lit in three or four large lamps. -Without touching it he saw that which he had guessed in the half-light, -Lilian Temple's writing and the envelope without a stamp. - -"She is here ... she is here----" he stammered, growing very pale, and -speaking aloud. - -His twitching hands touched the letter, but still without opening it: -beneath the envelope he found a long, narrow visiting-card. The card -said: "_Miss May Ford_," and in fine handwriting in pencil: "Will -return." He let his head sink on the arm of the chair as he held the -card in his fingers, which almost let it fall, and lapsed into thought -for some moments in the silence of the room. Mechanically he rang the -bell and started on seeing Francesco almost immediately before him on -the other side of the desk. - -"This letter was brought by hand, wasn't it?" he murmured, looking at -the servant as if he saw him not. - -"Yes, Excellency. It was left with the visiting-card." - -"By whom?" - -"By a lady, Excellency." - -"A lady ... was she young?" - -"No, Excellency." - -"Was she alone?" - -"Alone, Excellency." - -"At what time?" - -"At four o'clock." - -"And what did you tell her?" - -"That your Excellency usually returned about half-past six and nearly -always went out about eight to dinner." - -"Ah!" exclaimed Lucio Sabini. - -With a gesture he dismissed the man. Scarcely was he gone when Lucio -rose, a prey to a vain agitation; he went up and down the room as if -seeking something he found not, but without really looking for it; he -gazed around with dazed eyes, as if to question the farthest corners -of the vast room, he stumbled against some piece of furniture without -being aware of it, and touched two or three objects without seeing -them, replacing them where he had found them. Inevitably he returned -to his writing-table, his glance settled on the closed envelope -without the stamp, over which spread Lilian Temple's large, flexible -handwriting. - -"She is here ... she is here----" he exclaimed desperately. Twice he -took the letter, turned it over, made as if to open it with a rapid, -despairing gesture; the second time he threw it down on the table as -if it burnt him. He passed into the adjacent room, his bedroom, and -turned on the light. The room seemed rather gay with its bright and -fresh-coloured Liberty silk, bright brass bed, fine lace curtains -and _partières_, and the lacquered wood of soft grey. He made for a -small desk, opened its largest drawer and drew it forth. It was full -of Lilian Temple's letters, written on fine sheets of foreign paper, -very voluminous in character, which were crossed horizontally and -vertically. Beneath them a large envelope was hidden where surely -would be a portrait, or perhaps several portraits, of Lilian Temple; -but quite in the front of the drawer there was a large bundle of -unopened letters, like the one he had left on his writing-table in -the _salotto_. With a slightly trembling hand he pushed back all the -leaves which were issuing in confusion from their opened envelopes -and passed them to the back, hiding especially the large wrapper with -the photograph, from which he averted his eyes. He separated all the -unopened letters, and counted them twice, as if he thought that he was -mistaken. There were fourteen. Fourteen letters from Lilian Temple -which he had not opened: he looked at the one which seemed the oldest -in date, and he seemed to read on the English stamp the date of the -26th of December. In three months Lilian had written him fourteen -letters which he had not read, because he had not opened them; and the -last ones he had thrown away so rapidly without looking at them that -he had not even the stamp or date of departure. For some moments he -stood by the open drawer. An agonising uncertainty was to be read on -his face: two or three times he made as if to take the closed packet of -letters and open one, or some, or all of them; but two or three times -he hesitated and repented. At last he shrugged his shoulders roughly, -pushed back the drawer and closed it. A dull noise at his shoulder made -him turn round: - -"Miss Ford is asking from the 'Savoy' if Signor Lucio Sabini has -returned, and if he can receive her at once," demanded Francesco. - -"Did you reply that I had returned?" asked Lucio, biting his lips a -little. - -"I replied that your Excellency had returned," said Francesco, "but -nothing else." - -"Say that I am expecting Miss Ford at once." - -Dazed, he passed a hand over his forehead, as if wishing to resume the -direction of his tumultuous thoughts: he strove to impress there an -energy that should arouse his lost will. But his thoughts and will lost -themselves in great tumult and disorder around this idea, these words: - -"If _she_ were to come too; if _she_ were to come with her." - -Like an automaton he passed again into his room. With a rapid gesture -he hid the unopened letter, the fifteenth, the last from Florence. -He moved some chairs to occupy his hands; for a moment he leant with -his burning forehead against the glass of his bookcase, hiding his -face. But the sound of the bell in the anteroom startled him from his -abandonment. - -He jumped up, composed and tranquil, advanced to the door, and bowed -deeply to Miss May Ford, who entered, announced by Francesco. Kissing -the grey-gloved hand which the Englishwoman extended to him, he led -her to a chair and sat down opposite her, turning his shoulders to the -large lamp on the writing-table so as not to show his face. Dressed -in grey with a black hat, Miss May Ford showed an imperturbable face, -whence had escaped every expression of the amiability of a former -time--a tranquil, cold, imperturbable face. - -"Welcome to Florence, Miss Ford." - -"How do you do, Signor Sabini? Are you quite well?" - -"Yes--thanks." - -"Have you been keeping well?" - -"No," he murmured, "I have been indisposed for some time, for a month." - -"Oh, dear," exclaimed Miss Ford, with a conventional intonation of -regret. "I hope you are all right now." - -"I am all right now, thanks," replied Lucio coldly, perceiving that she -did not believe him. - -They exchanged a rapid glance. He was the first, with an effort of -will, to question her: - -"Are you alone, Miss Ford?" - -"How alone?" she asked, pretending not to understand. - -"Isn't your travelling companion with you?" he asked, with difficulty -suppressing his emotion. - -"She is not with me," she replied coldly. - -"Isn't she in Florence?" he asked again, unable this time to conceal -his anxiety. - -For a moment Miss Ford hesitated. Then she replied again: - -"She is not in Florence." - -"Ah," he exclaimed, with a deep sigh, "and where is she?" - -Miss Ford scrutinised him with a long glance: then she said: - -"Don't _you_ know where Lilian Temple is?" - -Beneath that glance, and at those words, he was lost and showed his -loss. He stammered: - -"I don't know: how could I know?" - -"But you ought to know," added Miss Ford, looking at him. - -"That is true; perhaps I ought to know," he replied, without -understanding what she said. - -"In her letters she always told you what she was doing, and where she -was going," added the old maid, in a firm, precise tone. - -"Yes," he replied, throwing her a desperate glance. - -Miss Ford lowered her face behind her black veil and became silent, as -if she were gathering together her ideas. Confronted with her, silent -and convulsed, Lucio Sabini waited for her words, incapable of saying -anything unless he were asked. Then she asked him calmly, with cold -courtesy: - -"Will you be so good as to answer a few of my questions, Signor Sabini?" - -He looked at her; and his eyes, the eyes of a man who had lived, -enjoyed, and suffered much, almost besought her to have mercy. She -averted hers naturally and asked: - -"Do you remember that you left us, Signor Sabini, on the 20th of -September? Do you remember that you told Lilian--the last words on the -companion-way of the steamer as you were leaving--that you expected her -soon, as soon as possible, in Italy?" - -What anguish there was in the man's eyes which were fixed pleadingly on -the woman, as if to beseech her to spare him that cup; what anguish as -he bowed assent. - -The Englishwoman continued coldly: "Afterwards she wrote to you very -often from England. You replied promptly and often in long letters. Is -that so?" - -"It is so," he answered, in a weak voice. - -"I don't know Lilian's letters or yours. I know that you always wrote -that you wished to see her again, that you would come to England or -that she should come to Italy. Is that true?" - -"It is true," the man consented, weakly. - -There was an instant of silence. - -"Later," resumed Miss Ford, "you began to reply less frequently, and -more curtly. At last you spoke no more of your journey to England nor -of Lilian's to Italy." - -"I spoke no more of it," he consented, with bowed head. - -"Finally you ceased to write to Lilian. It is three months since you -have written to her." - -"It is three months," he said, like a sorrowful echo. - -Miss May Ford made her inquiry with perfect composure and courtesy, -without any expression manifesting itself on her face, without any -expression passing into her voice. Only she kept her eyes on those of -Lucio's, her limpid, proud English eyes, which spoke truth of soul and -sought it in the sad, furtive eyes of Lucio Sabini. - -"Then," resumed the Englishwoman, "as my young friend had no reply to -her letters, and as I was here in Florence, she begged me to come and -find you and to ask you for this reply." - -"Have you come on purpose?" he asked disconsolately. "Did you make the -journey on purpose?" - -"Oh, no!" replied Miss Ford at once, punctiliously. "Not on purpose! I -am here for my pleasure, and my friend sent me to you for an answer." - -"But what answer? Whatever answer can I give Lilian Temple, Miss Ford?" -the man cried, in great agitation. - -"I don't know. You ought to know, Signor Sabini," she replied boldly. -"An answer, I suppose, to her last letter." - -"Which last letter? Which?" - -"That of to-day: that which I brought you," concluded Miss Ford simply. - -He leant forward for a moment in his chair, then fell back suddenly, -overcome. And the sad confession escaped almost involuntarily from his -lips: - -"I haven't read it." - -"You haven't read it, Signor Sabini?" asked Miss Ford, with her first, -fleeting frown. - -"I haven't read it," he again affirmed, with bowed head. - -"Oh!" only exclaimed Miss Ford, in a tone of marvel and incredulity. - -Lucio rose; with trembling hands he sought in his writing-table, took -the closed letter and showed it to the Englishwoman. - -"Here it is, untouched. I haven't read it; I haven't opened it." - -"Why?" asked May Ford coldly. - -"Through fear, through cowardice," exclaimed Lucio Sabini crudely. - -Miss Ford was silent, with lowered eyes; her gloved hands grasped the -handle of her umbrella. And Lucio, deciding to stretch, with his cruel -hands, the wound from which his soul was bleeding, continued: - -"Through fear and cowardice I did not open this letter to-day from -Lilian Temple, as I have not done for nearly three months--please -understand me--I have opened none. You do not believe me? It is not -credible? I will fetch her letters." - -Convulsively he vanished into the other room and reappeared immediately -with the fourteen sealed letters and threw them into Miss Ford's lap. - -"There they are. They are all I have received since December: I haven't -read them, I tell you, nor opened them. It is abominable, but it is so; -it is grotesque, but it is so! I am a man, I am thirty-five, I have -seen death, I have challenged death, but I have never dared for three -months to open a letter from Lilian. I have no longer had the courage. -In fact, the abominable cruelty in not reading what she wrote me, the -infamy and grotesqueness of not opening the envelopes, the ignoring of -which I believed myself incapable, the cruelty for which I hate and -despise myself, I have done through fear and cowardice and through -nothing else. Do you understand me?" - -Slowly Miss Ford took the letters, one by one, read their addresses, -and placed them one on the other in order. Raising her head, she asked, -with great, even greater coldness: - -"Fear? Cowardice?" - -"Yes! Through fear of the suffering caused to myself and others, -through not wishing to suffer or know suffering, or see, or measure the -sufferings of others." - -"Suffering? Sorrow?" again asked the cold voice of the Englishwoman. - -"I suffer like one of the damned, Miss Ford," he added gloomily. - -"Ah!" she exclaimed, with colourless intonation. - -"And Lilian also suffers! Isn't it true that she suffers?" - -"Yes, I believe she suffers," exclaimed Miss Ford, glacially. - -By now she had made a pile of the fourteen sealed letters, and raising -her head she said to Lucio Sabini: - -"Must I take back all these letters, then, to my friend, so that she -may see and understand, Signor Sabini? Give me the last as well and I -will go." - -And she made as if to rise and depart with her pile of letters, without -further remark. - -"Then Lilian is here?" cried Lucio Sabini, drawing near to the English -lady, again convulsed. "She is here. Tell me that she is here." - -Miss Ford hesitated a moment. - -"No, Lilian is not here," she affirmed tranquilly. - -"Ah, if only she were here, if only she were here!" he cried, hiding -his face in his hands. - -"Would you look for her, Signor Sabini? Would you see her? Would you -speak with her?" - -As one in a dream he looked at the Englishwoman: and at each question -his face, contracted by his interior anguish, seemed discomposed. - -"No," he replied in a slow, desolate voice. "No, I would not seek her -out; I would not see her; I would not speak with her." - -"Ah!" - -"I must never see Lilian Temple again," he added, opening his arms -desolately. - -"Never again, Signor Sabini?" - -"Never again." - -"But why?" - -He made a despairing but resolute movement. - -"I am not free, Miss Ford." - -"You have a wife?" and the Englishwoman's voice seemed slightly -ironical. - -"No, I haven't a wife; but I am even more tied and bound than if I had -one." - -"I don't know; I don't understand," she said. - -"One sometimes leaves and deserts a wife. A lover is much more -difficult. Sometimes it is impossible. It is impossible for me: I am a -slave for ever." - -He spoke harshly and brutally; but as if he were using such harshness -and brutality against himself. In the light dimmed by the shades, it -seemed as if a slight blush had spread over Miss Ford's pale face. -The glaciality of her voice diminished: it seemed crossed by a subtle -current of emotion, where also there was embarrassment, stubbornness, -and pain. Miss May's questions were slower and more timid, more -hesitating in some words, more broken with short silences, as if she -had scarcely resumed the interrogation. Lucio's replies were precise, -rough, gloomy, as if directed to a mysterious inquisitor of his soul, -as if to his very own conscience. - -"Isn't this person, this woman, free?" - -"She is another's wife. Together we have betrayed a man's confidence." - -"Do you adore this woman?" - -"I adored her ten years ago. Now I adore her no more; but I am hers for -ever." - -"Then you love her very much?" - -"I loved her with an ardent love. Now I no longer love her; but I am -her slave." - -"Does she love you?" - -"She did adore and love me; but now no longer. Though without me she -could not live." - -"Are you sure?" - -"I am sure. Beatrice Herz would prefer death to being deserted." - -"But why?" exclaimed the Englishwoman, moved at last. - -"Because we committed the sin of adultery." - -"Oh!" she exclaimed, blushing furiously, and with a gesture that asked -to be told no more. - -"Ah, I beg your pardon, Miss Ford," exclaimed Lucio with a new -exaltation, "I beg your pardon, if I offend your chastity and -scandalise your modesty. But since you are here, Miss Ford, and since -I shall not see you again, or again have before me a good, upright -soul like yours, and since you will never again see the wretch before -you, let me tell you, in the bitterest, most terrible words, all my -horrible misery! Miss May, God is right, religion is right; one must -not commit adultery. He who commits this fascinating sin pollutes -his life indelibly, destroys his happiness, sows ashes in his heart, -and gathers the fruits of the Dead Sea and poison. One must not -commit adultery. Ten years ago Beatrice Herz was so beautiful: I was -so passionate! The intoxication that joined us and exalted was so -incomparable! Ah, don't draw back, I beg of you; listen to me to the -end. I don't wish to exalt error, but blame it; I wish not to raise -up sin, but vilify it; I do not wish to tell to myself, now too late, -what an abomination was that fraud, what a shame that betrayal; I only -wish to cry out to others, unconscious, trusting blindly in themselves, -what a death in love, what a death in life is adultery. We loved each -other for a year, Beatrice and I; but for this year we threw away our -youth, our happiness, our liberty. A year of sin, Signorina, is a year -of servitude, of misery, of shame. Ah, I have never so much cursed and -execrated my sin as when Lilian Temple appeared to me." - -May Ford trembled, and started: her attention seemed more intense. - -"Lilian! Lilian!" he exclaimed, rising, as if in a vision, as if -holding out his arms to a phantom; "a creature of twenty, of rare -beauty, all delicacy and grace; a loyal heart, proud and sweet, like -a precious treasure opened for me; a loving, pure soul, a flower -of freshness and virginity. Purity and candour, love and ardour -together--Lilian! Lilian! To me this creature came full of every -fascination; to me she came with her eyes that in their blueness opened -to me the way of heaven, with her lips that smiled at me and called -me, with hands that were stretched out to me laden with every gift, -her beautiful hands that wished to give me everything, even the very -hands themselves; to walk with her for ever, step by step, until death. -Lilian! Lilian! You who came to me to be mine, you who were given to -me by God, you who were mine--Lilian.... And I believed that I could -deserve you, that I could have you; Lilian, whom I gathered that you -might be my bride, my companion, my good--so I believed." - -Like a child, Lucio Sabini threw himself on a sofa, his head buried in -his arms, as he wept and sighed. - -Miss May Ford rose and went to him, but without bending or touching -him, she said anxiously: - -"Why are you crying?" - -He jumped up and raised his head, showing a face convulsed with grief -and furrowed by tears. - -"I weep because I have been deceived, because I am profoundly -disillusioned; because I deceived an innocent girl, because I lied -to myself, in suddenly believing myself free to love and be loved; -because I erred, believing that there was still time to live, to live -again--while it was too late." - -"Too late?" - -"Yes. Sin has devastated me; sin has reduced me to slavery. I am not -worthy of freedom, of love--of Lilian." - -"And what must _dear_ Lilian do?" And at the adjective Miss Ford's -voice trembled for an instant. - -"She must forget me. She must! Tell her that I am too old for her at -twenty; that I am as arid as pumice-stone; that I have neither youth, -nor health, nor strength, nor joy to offer her beauty, her fascination, -and her goodness; that I am no longer capable of love, or enthusiasm, -or fidelity, or devotion. Tell her all that! She must forget me--she -must. I am a ruined, devastated, dead being; nothing could arouse -me. Tell her that! Let her forget me; let her forget the man who is -undeserving of her, who has never deserved her; let her forget the -being who has scorched his existence at every flame; let her forget the -man who has neither faith, nor courage, nor hope--let her forget me. -Tell her who I am and what I am. Tell her even worse things, that she -may forget me." - -"She will not believe me," replied Miss Ford slowly. "Thus she did not -know you in the Engadine." - -"The man of the Engadine was a phantom," again cried Lucio excitedly. -"He was a phantom, another myself, Miss May; another--he of ten years -ago--of once upon a time, a phantom that felt itself born again, -living again, having form and substance, blood and nerves, being full -of immense hope and certainty. In that wondrous land, and beside a -wondrous creature, in the presence of an indescribable beauty of things -and the perfect beauty of a girl, amidst the flatteries of light, and -air, and flowers, of the fragrance, glances, and smiles of a dear -lady, that phantom had to become a man again, had to be the man of -formerly, strong in sentiment, strong in desire, strong in the new -reason for his life. He had to be; he had to be! Who would not have -cancelled ten years of sin and slavery in an hour, in a minute, up -there amidst everything lofty and pure, white and proud, beside a soul -so pure and ardent as Lilian's? Who would not have been another being? -Who would not have honestly believed he was another being? She knew a -phantom--tell her that! He has vanished, with every false, fleeting -form of life, with all his hopes and desires. The wretched phantom -vanished in a moment." - -"When?" - -"On the pier at Ostend, while your boat, as it cleaved the mist, bore -you back to England." - -Exhausted, frightened, he fell back on the sofa, and scarcely breathed. -Standing silently and thoughtfully, Miss May Ford seemed to be waiting -for the last words. He raised his head. The tears were dried on his -flushed cheeks. - -"Tell her to forget me," he resumed in a hard voice, "to fall in love -with someone as young as she is, with an honest young Englishman, sane -of spirit as she is; with a young Englishman, loving and pure as she -is. Let her fall in love with this Englishman, and marry him." - -"I do not know if she can do that, Signor Sabini." - -"Do you believe that she will not succeed in forgetting me?" he asked, -again in anguish. - -"I do not know," she replied, shaking her head. "I do not know all the -depths of her heart." - -"Do you think she loves me very much? That she loves me too much?" he -asked with emotion, taking her hands. - -"I am ignorant as to how much she loves you. She has not told me. We -don't discuss these things in England," added Miss Ford quickly. - -"Six weeks together," he murmured thoughtfully, "only six weeks, and a -girl of twenty. It is impossible for her to be too much in love with -me." - -"Let us hope so, if only we may hope so," replied Miss Ford. - -"I hope so, I believe it; it must be so. Lilian must be loved by -another; she must be happy with another, and forget her shadow of love -in the Engadine, her phantom of the Engadine." - -The colloquy was ended. The last words came from the lips of the quiet, -good Englishwoman. - -"Won't you now content my friend, Signor Sabini? Won't you give me a -reply to her letter? To the letter I brought you to-day?" - -Uncertainly and anxiously he took the letter which remained abandoned -on the writing-table. With a rapid movement he tore open the envelope. -It contained the following few words in English: - -"My love; tell me if you ever loved me, if you still love me. I shall -always love you.-- LILIAN." - -Lucio read aloud the few simple, frank words, the tender question, the -deep promise. And all the amorous life of the Engadine reappeared to -him, in all its most intimate and invincible attraction. His whole soul -reeled, his heart broke. - -"Tell her how much I loved her, Miss May; tell her how much I still -love her; that far-away and all the time I shall always be hers. Tell -her that; it is the truth. I have never deceived her. That is the -answer, the only answer." - -Thus he besought May Ford, with anxious eyes and trembling lips, in a -cry that arose from the innermost depths of his heart, that the cry -might reach even to Lilian. - -"I can't tell her that," replied Miss Ford gravely, "I will not tell -her that." - -"But why not; if it be the truth? Why not?" - -"If I tell her, Signor Sabini, she can never forget you, she will never -cease to love you. She must never know that you love her." - -"Indeed, indeed!" he replied sadly, "and how could she ever understand, -she who is innocent, simple, and pure, that I can love her and yet fly -from her; that I can love her and remain with Beatrice Herz? That is my -inexorable condemnation--Lilian can never understand." - -"Signor Sabini, tell me the only thing necessary for her to forget; -something short and convincing that can turn Lilian." - -Miss Ford sighed, as if she had talked too much and expressed too much. - -"One thing only, then," said Lucio Sabini firmly. "You shall tell her -simply that a woman has been mine for ten years, that she has loved me -very much, and keeps me as if it were her life itself, and that if I -left her she would die. I remain with her so that she may not die." - -"Must I say that she would die?" - -"You must say that. If Lucio Sabini were to desert Beatrice Herz she -would kill herself." - -"She would kill herself; very good." - -Bowing composedly to Lucio, Miss May Ford turned her back and left with -calm steps. - - * * * * * - -On the following day Lucio Sabini hovered round the precincts of the -Savoy Hotel like a child, turning his back if he saw a carriage leaving -or arriving, disappearing into a shop if he saw the omnibus full of -travellers leaving, vanishing into an adjacent street whenever he saw -a lady or two ladies leaving or entering. He did not see Miss May Ford -either leave or enter at any time, and he dared not enter the vestibule -of the hotel to ask if she had left, or were leaving soon. He ended by -withdrawing, and almost flying from the neighbourhood of the hotel, -where his soul indicated to him the presence of Lilian Temple. In the -tepid, odoriferous hour of sunset, he went to the Cascine, drove, as -every day, to the Viale Michelangelo, and at every carriage he met, in -which from afar he seemed to perceive two ladies, he trembled, jumped -up, and was about to tell his coachman to turn round. Those who greeted -him in that sunset were not recognised by him; she for whom he had -sacrificed Lilian Temple waited for him in vain towards half-past six, -for the very short daily visit which he paid her to take the orders for -the evening. At nine in the evening he was beneath the portico of the -Florence railway station, hidden behind the farthest of the columns -which support it, watching the arrival of the travellers' carriages -and hotel omnibuses for the departure of the express to Bologna and -Milan in connection with the Gothard train for France. It still wanted -three-quarters of an hour; every five minutes he drew out his watch -nervously. His eyes watched, in the obscurity, the corner of Santa -Maria Novella, whence the carriages and omnibuses reach the station; at -some moments his impatience had no bounds. However, he kept himself -closely hidden behind the pillar with the collar of his overcoat -raised, as if he were cold, and with the rim of his black hat lowered -over his eyes; only his eyes lived ardently within him, through his -scorched soul, which waited, invoked, and knew that Lilian was about to -appear. Twice Miss Ford had denied Lilian's presence in Florence, but, -like all Englishwomen who know not how to tell a lie, she had hesitated -for a moment before pronouncing the lie. All Lucio's mind palpitated -with the anxiety of waiting behind the pillar, because he was now sure -that Lilian Temple would appear from one moment to another. Suddenly -he felt himself wrapped in a double impetus of joy and sorrow, because -Lilian Temple with Miss Ford had descended at fifty paces distance from -him, from the omnibus of the Savoy Hotel. Seeing her, recognising and -watching her, he heard a voice within him, speaking in his ear, as if -a living being were speaking beside him, so much so that, frightened, -he turned round as he heard the words, to seek whomsoever could have -uttered them: - -"Lilian loves you; you love her. Take her in your arms, and fly with -her." - -Step for step Lilian followed her friend and guardian, May Ford, who -was seeing to the details of departure, while they exchanged neither -a word nor a nod. From his hiding-place behind the pillar, Lucio saw -Lilian's slender, fine figure outlined in her black travelling-dress, -that he knew so well, the travelling-dress she had worn when they left -the Engadine together for Berne and Basle. From his hiding-place he saw -Lilian's blond head beneath her black hat with the white feather; but, -owing to the distance, and the thick white veil she wore, as on that -other journey when they left the Engadine, he could hardly make out -her face. But neither in her hands nor at her waist was she carrying -flowers as then: her hands weakly held a little travelling valise and -a slender umbrella. But she had no flowers. Seeing this, Lucio heard, -like a whisper in his ears, the voice again telling him: - -"She is leaving; go with her." - -The two English ladies now entered the long, narrow vestibule of the -station, covered with glass, and disappeared from Lucio's eyes. He -withdrew from the pillar, and began to follow them from a distance, as -side by side, and without speaking, they went through the vestibule. -From the distance it seemed to Lucio that now and then Lilian bowed -her head on her breast; but he could not observe very well, owing to -the crowd that came between them. Miss Ford bought a book and a paper -from the bookstall; she was lost for a few moments as she chose them, -while Lilian waited at a little distance, her face almost invisible -behind her white veil, as she leaned with both her hands on the handle -of her umbrella, as if she were tired. The ladies withdrew towards the -first-class waiting-room; Lucio followed them, keeping his distance. -They did not sit down, and he kept behind the glass door, as he peeped -inside. Lilian Temple's deep silence, even if she liked silence, even -if the two companions were gladly silent, overwhelmed him, as being the -sign of something mysterious that kept her closed within herself, since -she was now incapable of telling anything of what she felt to anyone. - -The two ladies noticing the opening of the doors for departure, went -out on to the platform, and proceeded to the train, which was to take -them to Milan, and thence to Chiasso, France, and England. When Lucio -Sabini saw that the train was about to start, and that the two ladies -were looking for their places from carriage to carriage, quietly and -with determination, to leave and vanish from him; when he understood -that in a few minutes the dear young face would disappear in the shadow -of the night, without her having seen him again, without his farewell; -when he understood that she was going from him, spurned, refused, -almost driven away by him, he trembled with sorrow, and almost with -fear, for once again someone seemed to be speaking in his ear, but with -an even more intense and mysterious voice: - -"Don't let her leave alone; go with her." - -Constrained by this sorrow, by the fear which the interior voice was -inflicting on him, he hurried his steps, and almost ran to reach the -two ladies. But a flow of people crossed his path; trucks full of -luggage intervened. When he succeeded in surmounting the obstacles -the two English ladies were already in their carriage. He halted at -a little distance, where they could not see him, and observed that -Lilian Temple was already seated behind the window. She was silent. She -did not look at the bustle of the station, she gazed at nothing, she -sought and expected no one. At last, beneath the great electric light, -Lucio almost distinguished her face beneath the white veil. It was a -composed face, with drooping eyes, but tearless, and perhaps without -any expression of sadness; a closed mouth, without smiles, but firm and -calm in its lines. A great chill froze Lucio's heart, and rooted him to -the spot, as he thought: - -"She does not suffer; she is resigned and tranquil." - -He remained motionless as the doors were banged to and closed -violently, while the orders for departure were transmitted briskly, and -the locomotive whistled. Without stirring, he watched the train move, -the carriage draw away where Lilian Temple sat, and the beloved face -disappear behind the white veil. Then, in the suddenly empty station, -when he was left alone, an immense bitterness invaded him, and bitterly -he thought: - -"She will forget me." - -That other true voice of his conscience was silent and overcome. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -All the morning, as every day, the bell of the entrance door of -Vittorio Lante's pretty but modest apartments in Via de' Prefetti had -done nothing but ring: and his housekeeper, his only servant, an old -woman of very honest appearance, who had been settled with him by -his mother, had done nothing but announce to her master the visits -of the most diverse and strange people. This pilgrimage of friends, -acquaintances, and strangers had begun directly after Vittorio had -returned from Paris, in fact from Cherbourg, where he had accompanied -his _fiancée_, Mabel Clarke, and his future mother-in-law, Annie -Clarke, whence they had embarked on a colossal transatlantic liner. -Scarcely had the newspapers announced, rather solemnly, the arrival -of the Prince of Santalena, Don Vittorio Lante, who in the spring -would depart for America, where would be celebrated, with marvellous -sumptuousness, his marriage with Miss Mabel Clarke, than those -apartments, usually calm and silent, had been invaded every day by -people of all conditions and kinds. In December Don Vittorio Lante -della Scala, whom everyone now complacently called the Prince of -Santalena, although he had not yet been able to repurchase, shall we -say, the right to bear this title, had gone to Terni to pass the feasts -of Christmas and the New Year with his mother, Donna Maria Lante della -Scala, who lived in great retirement in a few rooms of the majestic -Palazzo Lante, and he did not return until the middle of January. - -Again the oddest people, known and unknown, began to overflow the -small but elegant abode of Don Vittorio, and as winter declined to -spring, the people arrived in increasing numbers and besieged Vittorio -at home. They waited for him at the door and went to look for him -in the _parloir_ of his club, where he lunched and dined; they ran -everywhere he was wont to repair. Each morning and evening bundles of -letters arrived for him, some of which were registered and insured to -the value of a thousand and two thousand lire. One day, in fact, he had -a letter with a declared value of five thousand lire. And all, intimate -and ordinary friends, old and new acquaintances, strangers and unknown, -wrote him letters, sent him enclosures, forwarded him documents, -attracted by the immense fortune he was about to possess in marrying -Mabel Clarke with a dowry of fifty millions--and some said a hundred -millions. All desired and wished, all asked from him, with some excuse -or other, with one pretext or another, a little part, a big part, a -huge part of this fortune which was not yet his, but which would be his -within six, four, or two months. - -One sought a loan on his return from the honeymoon, a friendly loan, -nothing else, through the ties of old affection, giving no hint as to -the date or manner of repayment; someone asked a serious loan with -splendid guarantees and first mortgages; another wished to sell him -the four horses of his stage-coach; another wished to give up to him -his kennels, another a villa, a castle, a palace, a property, another -wished him to redeem from the Government an island in the Tyrrhennian -Sea to go hunting there; while another wished him to acquire a yacht of -two thousand tons. - -Every day to all this were added the visits of vendors of jewels, of -linen, of fashions for men and women, of fine wines and liqueurs, -wanting him to buy from them for fabulous sums, offering all the credit -possible, to be paid for a year after the marriage, so that they might -have the honour of being his purveyors. To their visits and letters -were added those of other strange beings, small and great inventors -who asked much money to relinquish their inventions; discoverers of -wonderful secrets which they would reveal for a consideration; girls -who asked for a dowry to enable them to marry; singers who asked to -be maintained at the Conservatoire for two or three years, the time -that was necessary to become rivals of Caruso; widows with six sons -who wished to lodge three or four with him; people out of employment -who would like to follow him to America when he went to marry; other -unemployed who asked for letters of introduction to John Clarke; -adventurers who compared themselves with him and wanted to know how -he had managed to please a girl with fifty millions; seamstresses -who asked for a sewing-machine; students who wanted him to pay their -university fees. All this was done in fantastic alternation, sometimes -honest, sometimes false, but often grotesque and disgusting; for the -saraband was conducted on a single note--money, which it is true he -had not yet, as nearly everyone knew that he was poor, but that within -six months or less he would have an immense fortune. In fact, some of -the more cynical and shameless believed that he already had money, as -if Mabel Clarke's millions, or million, or half a million, had already -reached him as a present from the future father and mother-in-law, -or from his _fiancée_ herself. Indeed, an old mistress of a month -asked for three thousand francs which she said would be of immediate -use to her and which he could surely give her since he had so much -money from America: in exchange she offered him some love letters -which he had written her, threatening on the other hand to send them -to his _fiancée_ in America. He who had registered his letter to the -value of five thousand lire sent him a copy of a bill of exchange of -his father's, of thirty years ago, a bill which Don Giorgio Lante -had never paid; and, as usual, the correspondent threatened a great -scandal. During the first two months this strange assault at home, at -the club, in the streets, in drawing-rooms, in fact everywhere he went, -this curious assault of avarice and greed interested and amused him. He -was supremely happy in those early days. He had taken leave of Mabel, -certain of her troth; Annie Clarke, the silent idol, had smiled on him -benevolently from the deck of the liner, and he was sure that John -Clarke would give him his daughter. At that time he received gracious -letters--a little brief it is true--from Mabel, and still more often -cablegrams--a form she preferred--of three or four words in English, -always very affectionate: and he replied at once. He was supremely -happy! - -The human comedy, the human farce which bustled, not around him, but -around the money he was going to possess, was at bottom somewhat -flattering. He enjoyed all the pleasures of vanity which an -enormously rich man can have, although still poor. His nature was -simple and frank, his heart was loyal. He loved Mabel ardently and -enthusiastically; but the sense of power which he had for a short time -came pleasantly to him. Therefore he was polite to all his morning and -evening aggressors; he refused no one a hearing; he never said no. Only -with a courteous smile he postponed to later any decision, till after -the marriage or the honeymoon. Some sought for a bond or a promise in -writing; amiably and firmly he refused, without allowing him who was so -persistent to lose all hope. Vittorio Lante was never impatient with -all those who asked of him from fifty lire to five hundred thousand, -sometimes smiling and laughing as he kept the most eccentric letters to -laugh at them with Mabel in America, when they should have some moments -of leisure. In these annoyances of wealth there was a hidden pleasure, -of which for some time he felt the impressions keenly. - -Then a cablegram of the 3rd of December, from New York, told him that -John Clarke had consented. Intoxicated with joy he telegraphed to -Mabel, to Annie, even to John Clarke, and left at once for Terni, to -announce the glad tidings to his noble and gentle mother. Still soon -some shadows began to spread themselves over his life; light shadows -at first and then darker. Like lightning the news of the betrothal -of the great American millionairess with a young Roman prince had -been spread and printed everywhere in all the European newspapers, -and gradually there had begun witty and slightly pungent comments, -then rather cutting remarks. Whoever sent the French, German, and -English papers to him at Terni, to the Palazzo Lante, which first -congratulated him ironically and afterwards, gradually complicating -the news and redoubling the echoes, treated him as a broken noble of -extinct heraldry, as a dowry-hunter, a seller of titles; whoever sent -these witty, impertinent, often directly libellous papers had marked in -red and blue, with marks of exclamation, the more trenchant remarks. -Implacably, while he was away from Rome, away from every great centre, -in the solitude of his ancient palace--with what sarcasm the ruin of -this palace had been described in the papers and the necessity for -restoring it with Papa Clarke's money!--he received whole packets of -these papers and in his morbid curiosity and offended feelings he -opened all, devouring them with his eyes, and read them through, to -become filled with anger and bitterness. - -But if a tender letter from Mabel reached him at Terni, if she replied -with a tender expression to a dispatch of his, his anger calmed and -his bitterness melted. His mother saw him pass from one expression to -another, but she was unwilling to inquire too closely. With a tender -smile and gentle glance she asked him simply: - -"Does Mabel still love you?" - -"Always, mamma," he replied, trembling with emotion at the recollection -of the beautiful, fresh girl. - -But new papers arrived and again his mind was disturbed with anger -and sorrow. He would have liked to reply to them all, with denials, -with violent words, with actions against those people of bad faith, -against the villains who had published the news, who had printed the -articles and paragraphs full of gall: he would have liked to have -picked a quarrel with the paper, cuffed the journalist and fought a -duel with him; he wished to fight a dozen duels, make a noisy scandal, -and then reduce to silence those chroniclers of slander and calumny -by giving true light to the truth of deeds. Then he hesitated and -repented of it. He tore up the letter he had begun and exercised over -himself a pacifying control. Was he right to reply to malignity, lies, -and insinuations? Was it not better to shrug the shoulders, and let -them talk and print, and smile at it all; laugh at the journalists and -despise the journals? Would not Mabel Clarke, if she had been with him, -have thought and decided so, the American girl without prejudices, -free in ideas and sentiments, incapable of allowing herself to be -conquered by conventionality and social hypocrisy? Then he repressed -and controlled himself. But in the depth of his spirit now and then -arose a second reason for silence: with increasing bitterness he told -himself that some and many of the things had the appearance of truth, -and that some of them, moreover, were true. He loved Mabel Clarke -sincerely, but it was undeniable that it was a magnificent match for -whomsoever married her, even if he were rich, and he instead was -absolutely poor. Mabel loved him loyally, but she was the daughter of -an American merchant and he was the heir of a great name, a descendant -of a great family. Love was there, but barter in one way or another had -all the appearance of existing, and did exist. The rest, it is true, -was the malignity, insinuation, and calumny of journalists; but the -barter was undeniable, even sanctioned by ardent sympathy. What was the -use of writing, of lawsuits, of cuffing and provoking duels? It were -better to be silent and pretend to smile and laugh; in fact, in a fury -of pretence to smile and really laugh at all papers and journalists. - -On reaching Rome during the first ten days of January he was consoled -by a single thought against such infamies; that Mabel on the other side -might know little or nothing of them. Letters and telegrams continued -to be always very affectionate: the marriage ought to take place in the -middle of April, but John Clarke had been unwilling to fix a precise -date. That exalted his heart and rendered him strong against everything -that was printed about the nuptials: gradually now the papers became -silent. But at home, where his aggressors repaired more than ever, to -ask whatever they could ask from a man immensely rich, even they in the -middle of their discourses, would let slip a phrase or an allusion, -that they had read something and had been scandalised by it: how could -rascals on papers nowadays be allowed to insult such a gentleman as he -was--Don Vittorio Lante, Prince of Santalena as they knew him to be? - -At each of these allusions which wounded him, even in the midst of the -adulations and flatteries of his interlocutors, he trembled and his -face became clouded: he noted that everyone knew them and everyone -had read them, that the calumnies had been spread broadcast in every -set. Even at the club, now and then, someone with the most natural -disingenuousness would ask him if he had read such and such a Berlin -paper; someone else, more friendly, would tell him frankly how he had -grieved to read an _entre-filet_ of a Parisian paper. Sometimes he -would smile or jest or shrug his shoulders, and sometimes he showed -his secret anger. His well-balanced, always courteous mood changed; -sometimes he treated petitioners badly and dismissed them brusquely. -Such would leave annoyed, murmuring on the stairs that as a matter of -fact the European papers had not been wrong to treat Don Vittorio Lante -della Scala as a very noble and fashionable adventurer, but still an -adventurer. He passed ten restless days in which only Mabel's letters -and telegrams came to calm him a little. - -But he experienced the deepest shock when complete packets of American -papers arrived for him, voluminous, and all marked with red and blue -pencil, since each contained something about his engagement, his -marriage, his nobility, and his family. In long columns of small type -were spread out the most unlikely stories, most offensive in their -falseness; therein were inserted the most vulgar and grotesque things -at his expense, or at the expense of Italy or Italians. It was a -regular avalanche of fantastic information, of extravagant news, of -lying declarations, of interviews invented purposely, of fictitious -correspondence from Rome, and in addition to all this the most brutal -comments on this capture of an American girl and her millions by -another poor European gentleman, in order to carry away the girl and -her money, and make her unhappy, to waste her money on other women as -did all sprigs of European nobility, not only in Italy, but wherever -they had managed to ensnare an American girl. Other marriages between -rich American women and aristocratic but poor Europeans were quoted, -with their often sad lot, conjugal separations, with their divorces, -fortunes squandered in Europe, with their souls alienated from mother -and father, and every American paper concluded that their daughters -were mad and foolish again to attempt an experience which had always -succeeded ill with them; that this miserable vanity of becoming the -wife of an English Duke, a Hungarian magnate, a French marquis or -Italian Prince should be suppressed. They should put it away: American -women should wed American men and not throw away their fresh persons -and abundant money on corrupt and cynical old Europe. - -When he had read all this, Vittorio Lante was thoroughly unhappy. The -papers were old, but there were some recent ones; the latest, those -of ten or twelve days previously, breathed an even more poisonous -bitterness. By now he had learned to speak English much better, and -understood it perfectly; none of that perfidy, none of that brutality -escaped him, and all his moral sensibility grieved insupportably, -all his nerves were on edge with spasms, as he thought that Mabel -Clarke, his beloved, his wife to be, had read those infamies from -America, and had absorbed all that poison. He would have liked to -telegraph her a hundred or a thousand words, to swear to her that -they were all nauseating lies; but he repented of it and tore up the -telegram, striving to reassure himself, as he thought that a direct and -independent creature like Mabel Clarke, that a loyal and honest friend -like the American girl would laugh at and despise the horrid things. - -But by a mysterious coincidence, which made him secretly throb with -anguish, a week passed by without a letter or note, or a single word -by telegram, reaching him from New York; Vittorio passed a fortnight -of complete silence between anguish and despair. Instead, a very broad -and voluminous letter, under cover and registered, reached him from New -York, containing a long article about his indiscretions, dated from -Rome, in which it was narrated, with the most exaggerated particulars, -how Miss Mabel Clarke's _fiancé_ in Italy had seduced a cousin two or -three years ago, how she had had a son by him, and how he had deserted -her and her little one in a district of Lazio. Vittorio Lante, who in -three weeks of silence had written Mabel Clarke four letters, and -sent three telegrams without obtaining a reply, dying with impatience -and anxiety, and hiding it from people, felt as if a dart were passing -through his heart, from side to side, felt as if all his blood were -ebbing away, and he remained exhausted and bloodless, unable to live or -die. - -So that morning at the end of February all those whom Giovanna, the -faithful servant, gradually announced, since her master, pale and -taciturn, consented to receive them with an automatic nod, found a man -who received them with a silent and fleeting smile, with a rare word -as he listened but scarcely replied to them, when they had finished -expounding their ideas and propositions, as if he had understood -nothing, and perhaps had heard nothing of them. For four or five days, -with a great effort of the will, Vittorio kept up appearances, driving -back his anguish to the depths of his heart, knowing that profound -dissimulation is necessary in the world, and that the world must see -little of our joy and none of our sorrow. - -That morning there filed before him a traveller for a motor-car -company who wished to make him buy three cars, of forty, sixty, and -eighty horse-power respectively, to be paid for, naturally, after the -marriage, but consignable a month previously with, of course, a fixed -contract; a kind of tatterdemalion, all anointed, who offered him a -Raphael, an authentic Raphael, for two hundred thousand lire, and who -ended by asking for two francs to get something to eat; a gentleman -of high society, who lived by the sale of old pictures, tapestry, -bronzes, and ivories, who took them from the antiquaries and re-sold -them, gaining a little or a big commission, a friend who proposed -increasing the prices, since Mabel Clarke was to pay, and that they -should both divide the difference, proposing to him, in fact, that he -should rob his future wife; a _littérateur_ who came to seek from him -the funds to launch a review in three languages, and who proposed to -insert therein his own articles which Vittorio Lante should sign with -his name; an agent of a bankrupt exchange, known to be unable to go on -'change, who proposed some mining affairs in Africa for John Clarke to -take up, offering him a stiff commission so that he should transfer -these uncertain shares to his father-in-law. And, more or less, in all -demands, proposals, and requests which were made to him that morning, -he perceived the intention to mock and cheat him, but still more he -discovered in many of them the conception that he was a man of greed, -who could for more or less money deceive his wife and father-in-law, -cheat and rob them, like a sponger or society thief. Even more -sorrowfully than at other times, he trembled when he noticed the -expression of lack of esteem in which the people in his presence held -him, people who dared in his own house to propose crooked bargains, -equivocal business, as they offered him his own price! - -"Am I, then, dishonoured?" he thought, with a rush of bitterness. The -morning passed and afternoon came: he was alone, and for the third or -fourth time in three or four hours he asked Giovanna if letters or -telegrams had arrived. It was an almost convulsive demand, which he -had repeated constantly for three weeks, the only demand that showed -another human being the state of convulsion in which he found himself. -Nothing came, nor that morning either, except the newspapers, and a -letter from Donna Maria Lante from Terni, which Giovanna had at once -consigned to him. He composed his face, resumed the artless, jolly -expression which had been his worldly mask, went to lunch at the -club, and replied to three or four friends that the marriage would -certainly take place in April. He jested with everyone; he held up his -head before all, but he did not fail to observe that in questions, in -compliments, in congratulations, there was a sense of hesitation, as of -a slight incredulity and a little irony. The old Duke of Althan was -very cold with him; Marco Fiore scarcely greeted him. Hurt and very -nervous, he thought: - -"Am I, then, dishonoured?" - -He returned home: there were no letters or telegrams. He went out again -to Calori's fencing school, and passed an hour of violent exercise, -in which he allowed to escape whatever was insupportable in his pain; -again he returned home, found nothing there, and went out to leave -cards on two or three foreign ladies, whose acquaintance he had made -the day before at a tea at the English Ambassadress'. He wandered -through Rome, and for the third time, as if it were the way of the -Cross, he repaired home, asked Giovanna from the speaking-tube if there -were anything for him. She replied that there was a telephone message -for him. Disillusioned, more than ever pierced by anxiety, he went -upstairs, took from the landing-place the little card on which Giovanna -had written the telephone message, and read: - -"A friend from America expects Don Vittorio Lante at the Grand Hotel at -half-past four to take a cup of tea. Room Number Twenty-seven." - -Vittorio trembled from head to foot, like a tree shaken by the wind; -he drew out his watch convulsively. It wanted ten minutes to the -appointment; he hurled himself into a cab, trembling and controlling -himself, not noticing the streets he passed, and biting his lips at -every obstacle his carriage met. On at last reaching the vestibule of -the Grand Hotel, he threw the No. 27 to the porter. Refusing the lift, -bounding up the stairs to the first floor, he knocked at twenty-seven, -while his heart seemed to leap into his throat, suffocating him. From -within the clear, harmonious voice of Mabel Clarke said to him in -English: - -"Come in!" - -His face changed to a mortal pallor in her presence, as standing in -the middle of the great, bright room, full of flowers, she offered him -her hand; his too intense emotion filled his eyes with tears. He took -the hand and kissed it, while his tears fell on it. - -"Oh, dear, dear old boy," murmured Mabel, moved, looking at him -affectionately and smiling. - -He held the hand between his own, looked into his _fiancée's_ eyes, and -the cry, so often repressed, was from the depth of his heart: - -"Mabel, I swear to you that I am an honest man." - -"Do not swear, Vittorio," she replied at once, "I know it." - -"Ah, they calumniated me, they defamed me, they dishonoured me. Mabel!" -he exclaimed, falling into an arm-chair, "I swear to you that they are -lies, infamous lies." - -"I know," she replied with a softness in her firm, clear voice, "that -they are lies." - -"Ah, my consoler, my friend, my delight," he said, with a sigh, taking -her hands, drawing her to him, and embracing her and kissing her on her -forehead, and eyes, and cheeks. - -She allowed herself to be embraced and kissed, but with a gracious -movement she freed herself from him, and they sat side by side on one -of the large sofas, beneath a great Musa plant. - -"Do you still love me, Mabel?" he asked anxiously. - -"I am very fond of you, dear," she replied tranquilly. - -"Why have you caused me such suffering, dear, dear Mabel, in not -writing or telegraphing to me?" - -"I was travelling to Rome," she explained. - -"But when did you start?" he asked, already disquieted. - -"Three weeks ago, dear." - -"Then you have been elsewhere?" he continued, controlling his agitation -with an effort. - -"Yes, elsewhere," she rejoined with a smile, but without further -explanation. - -"But why didn't you warn me, dear? Why make me pass terrible days here -alone in Rome, not knowing how to vent my anger and sorrow? Ah, what -days!" - -"I left unexpectedly, Vittorio." - -"Unexpectedly?" - -"I decided to come to Rome in search of you on the spur of the moment. -Mammy is on the other side, only Broughton accompanied me. I am -incognito, dear; no one knows that I am Mabel Clarke. I am called Miss -Broughton." - -She laughed shortly. He was still more disturbed, though he did not -wish to show it. Confused and embarrassed, he looked at her, finding -her more blooming than ever in her irresistible youth, in her face -flourishing with beauty and health, in her slender figure dressed in -white. Like a lover he exclaimed: - -"Nothing matters now that you are here, Mabel, now that I am beside -you, now that I press your dear hand, where is all my happiness." - -She listened to him as formerly, bowing her head with its rebellious -chestnut locks a little, as if the ardent breath of those words were -caressing her face and soul. Then, suddenly, she said simply: - -"Shall we have tea, Vittorio?" - -"Yes, dear," he replied, enchanted with her. Just as formerly, she -went to a little table where everything was ready to make tea. She -accomplished quickly and gracefully the little operations, while he -watched her, enchanted by that beloved presence, and by her action and -words, which reminded him of, and brought to life again, his dream of -love in the Engadine. Suddenly all Vittorio's ecstasy dissolved; he was -again disturbed by a violent uneasiness. - -"Why have you come to Rome, Mabel?" he asked, somewhat authoritatively. - -"To learn the truth, Vittorio," she replied firmly, "and to tell it to -you." - -"To learn the truth, Mabel? Then you believed the infamies?" - -"I did not believe them," she replied, shaking her head seriously. - -"Did you believe that my mother was a martyr because of me, dying of -hunger in her palace at Terni, mending silk stockings to let me live?" -he cried, beside himself. - -"I did not believe it. I went to Terni two days ago; I saw your mother, -and I embraced her. She's a saint, and you are a good son." - -"You went to Terni? Yet you say that you did not believe it, Mabel? How -dare you say so? You also believed that I seduced Livia Lante; did you -not?" - -"I did not believe that; but I saw your cousin Livia four days ago -at Velletri. I spoke to her, and she told me everything. You did not -seduce her, and you never promised to marry her; she is sure that you -do not love her." - -"Oh, Mabel, Mabel, what shame for me! You went to seek the proofs of my -honesty; what shame for me! You believed me a villain!" Convulsed with -grief, he hid his face in his hands. - -She arose; took his hands away from his face, and forced him to look at -her. - -"Dear, dear, don't go on so, I beg of you. I believed nothing, but I -wanted to know the truth. As for us in our country, we believe only -with our eyes, so I decided to look for the truth." - -"I have never lied to you, Mabel," he added, a little more calmly. - -"No, never; you are a brave, loyal old boy." - -"You continue, then, after your personal inquiry, Mabel, to esteem and -love me?" - -"I continue to esteem and be fond of you." - -"You continue to be mine." - -"No," she replied clearly; "I do not continue to be yours." - -"Do you take back your word?" he cried, amazed. - -"It is you who will give me back yours," she said quietly. - -"I? I?" - -"You, dear. Because you are a man of honour, for no other reason, -because you are a gentleman you will break off of your own accord our -engagement, and we shall not marry." - -Mabel spoke simply and firmly, without emotion. Moreover, her face had -a seriousness and a gravity that he had never seen. - -"Shall we not marry?" he exclaimed. - -"No, Vittorio. We ought not to marry." - -"Because of the calumnies and defamations, Mabel?" - -"For none of those horrid things, my dear. We ought not to marry -because we should make a mistake." - -"A mistake?" - -"Yes, a mistake, which later would make us so unhappy, you and I. Now, -we ought not to be unhappy." - -"But why? But why?" he asked, very agitatedly. - -"Because I am very rich and you are very poor." - -"How horrible! How horrible!" he murmured gloomily, despondently. - -"_Que faire, mon cher?_" she exclaimed in French, shrugging her -shoulders; "I have this money because father gave it to me, and I can't -throw it away: can I? Money isn't such a bad thing. It isn't my fault -if I have so much of it." - -"Neither is it my fault if I am so poor," he rejoined sadly. - -"Nor is it mine, dear Vittorio." - -"You knew I was poor! I confessed it to you. I hid nothing from you." - -"That is true," she declared at once. "I knew that: you told me -loyally. I loved you and esteemed you for your loyalty. Only I made a -mistake." - -"You made a mistake?" - -"Yes; I made a mistake in believing that a rich woman could marry a -poor man without being very unhappy afterwards. It is a great mistake. -I beg your pardon, Vittorio, for my mistake. You are suffering for it, -and I want you to pardon me." - -"Ah, but you don't suffer; it doesn't matter at all to you," he -exclaimed, very bitterly. - -"You deceive yourself, Vittorio," she added, with some sweetness. "I -suffer as I know how to, as I can. But it is better to suffer a brief, -great sorrow, than to suffer for the whole of one's life." - -"But why should we suffer together, Mabel?" - -"Because of the money, dear." - -"I never thought of that when I loved you." - -"I know that," she replied, taking his hand and pressing it, "but -people don't. You have been seeking for a large dowry for some years; -you wanted to make a great marriage. People in America and Italy will -never believe you to be disinterested." - -"But you who know and love me? You should see that I love and adore you -only for yourself?" - -"Even love wanes later, and not so very much later," she replied -thoughtfully. "Your Italian love is so ardent and flattering; it sets -very soon. Afterwards ... I should believe people; I should believe -that you had married me for my money." - -"_Afterwards!_ I swear to you that there should be no afterwards for -me." - -"Swear not. All American women who have married Europeans have been -disillusioned and betrayed." - -"Others! Others!" - -"They were also gentlemen, dear, who perhaps were in good faith. It is -useless, we are too different; we have other souls and temperaments. We -have no luck with you Europeans, we poor, rich American women." - -Obstinately she shook her head; then she resumed slowly. - -"Where should we live? A part of the time in my country, in America. -There they would deem you a dowry-hunter; it would be, it will be, -impossible to make them believe the contrary. You would feel yourself -despised. Then the life is so different, in an atmosphere of distrust -the life would seem to you eccentric, grotesque, unbearable; and if I -forced you to stay there you would end by hating me." - -"But with us? In this beautiful land?" - -"Here _I_ should suffer, dear Vittorio. To all you Italian men and -women I should always be the American woman who had made a bargain, who -had given her dollars and bought a title. Principessa di Santalena! -Donna Mabel Lante della Scala! What a lot of people would laugh on -hearing the name, and would hide their smiles, because I should have -a palace and a park, and would give dinners and garden-parties; but -behind my back, what sneers and criticisms, and evil speaking! At your -first betrayal how all would curse you in my country, how all would say -you were right in yours, and all this because I, poor little woman, -have a dowry of fifty millions, and you fifteen hundred lire a month, -on which your mother must live." - -She ceased, as if breathless from having made too long a speech, she -who was accustomed to short, clear phrases, like all her race. - -"You never thought of this in the Engadine," he interrupted. - -"No, I never thought of it. Up there everything was so beautiful and -simple! Love was so pure and life so easy!" - -"Ah, how could you have forgotten that time, Mabel?" - -"I haven't forgotten it. Afterwards I saw that nothing is simple, -nothing easy--neither life, nor love, nor happiness--nothing, when -there is this terrible, powerful thing, money." - -"What, then, do you want from me? What have you come to seek from me?" -he asked, half angrily and half sadly. - -"For you to give me a proof of what you are by your birth, by your -past, by your character; for you to free me from the promise of -engagement, frankly and spontaneously." - -"Oh, I couldn't do otherwise," he said, with a pale, ironical smile. - -"You could. If you were a vile calculator, if you were a sordid, -interested man you could. You have my word, and my mother's; you have -my father's; you have my letters and my telegrams; you could force me -to marry you." - -She looked him in the eyes fixedly. He fixed hers unhesitatingly, -without a tremble, and said to her in a loud voice: - -"Miss Mabel Clarke, I release you and your parents from the engagement; -I hold at your disposal your letters and telegrams." - -Mabel Clarke grew pale, and then blushed with a rush of blood to her -beautiful face; she offered her hand to Vittorio Lante. - -"I knew it, darling! I am very fond of you, and shall always be fond of -you." - -Silent, impassive, he had performed his sacrifice in the name of his -honour; but the heroic act had consumed him. There was a long silence -between them. - -"I shall start back to-morrow," she said, in a low voice. - -"Ah, to-morrow!" he repeated, as if he did not quite understand. - -"Will you accompany me to Naples, where I shall embark, dear?" she -asked him affectionately, but with a veil of sadness in her voice. - -"I would rather not," he murmured weakly. - -"You must be stronger, Vittorio." - -"I have been strong," he replied, opening his arms. "You must not ask -more from me." - -"You must not suffer, darling." - -"I love you and suffer in loving you, Mabel," he said, simply and sadly. - -"I hope that will soon end." - -"Eh, not so soon, not so soon," he added, with melancholy and -bitterness. - -"You will return to your mother, won't you?" - -"Later on I shall go. I must go there to explain everything," he -murmured. - -Mabel, after having conquered him, experienced an ever broader -sympathy, an ever greater pity for him. Every word in which he vainly -poured forth his sorrow, the undoing, the delusion of all his hopes, -struck her good and loyal heart more than all the cries of revolt which -had rushed from his lips. After having conquered him, after being -freed, she became his friend, his sister, loving and sad, suffering -in seeing him suffer, desiring that he should suffer no more. But the -man who had given all his measure, who had accomplished his great act -of renunciation, could no longer be consoled by her; she had lost the -sentimental power of comforting him. But she tried again: - -"Your mother expects you, Vittorio." - -"Did you tell her everything?" he asked in a weak, colourless voice. - -"Yes, I told her." - -"Poor mamma," he murmured to himself. - -"Dear, dear Vittorio, start a new life within and without yourself! -Sell the old palace and the old park. Pay your debts. Take your mother -away with you, and with what is left try some undertaking, create an -industry, some work for yourself and others," she said energetically. - -"I should require another soul, and another heart," he replied -gloomily, with lowered eyes. - -"Change your country and your surroundings," she suggested -energetically, as if she wished to inject some will into him. - -"Perhaps I ought to come to America?" he asked, with a pale, ironical -smile. - -"Why not? John Clarke would do everything for you." - -But suddenly she bit her lips, as she saw Vittorio's contracted face -become disturbed with pallor, as if under an access of anger and grief. - -"Oh, thanks!" he said, with deep irony. "One thing only John Clarke -could do for me, and that I have renounced. Must I come to America like -a wretched seeker after work, like an emigrant? Miss Mabel, we shall -separate without your understanding me." - -"Perhaps," she replied humbly, "it has not been vouchsafed me to -understand you." - -"Would you like me to be there, Miss Mabel, when you marry the -American, some American, of your race and country?" he asked, with a -sarcastic smile. - -"Oh, this will only happen much later," she murmured, "very much later." - -"But it will happen, Miss Mabel," he insisted bitterly. - -"I believe so," she said simply; "not now, not for a year. Even later." - -"Why should you wait, miss?" he asked sadly, with ever greater sarcasm. - -"To forget you, dear," she replied frankly. - -He trembled, but restrained himself. - -"You think us American women heartless, Vittorio. You will never -understand us." - -Worn down, he again made a vague gesture of excuse. - -"On the contrary, Vittorio, I believe you will marry Livia Lante, much -sooner than I shall marry an American." - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"We are very poor, Livia and I. One can endure poverty when one is in -love. I do not love Livia." - -"Later solitude and boredom will oppress you. She is sweet and -gracious. She will beautify your life." - -"I could never endure poverty but on one condition, Mabel," he -exclaimed suddenly, invaded by a new exaltation. - -"Which?" - -"With you, Mabel, with you! Ah, if only you were a poor woman with -a halfpenny for a dowry, without a dress to your back, how I would -dream of taking you, of carrying you away with me, to work for you, my -companion, my spouse, my love, to look for work and riches for you, but -with you and for you!" - -Pale, absorbed, she listened to him. He drew near to her, took her -hands, and spoke face to face. - -"Ah, Mabel, come away, come away with me, far-away, renounce your -millions, renounce all your money; say to your father that you don't -want a farthing, that Vittorio Lante, your husband, wishes to work and -create with you and for you life and riches." - -With closed eyes she vacillated in his arms, vacillated beneath the -wave of that enveloping passion. - -"Mabel, you alone can make of me another man, with another soul, with -another heart! Mabel, remember, remember our dreams of love in the -Engadine, remember that you consented to love me up there; you did love -me, you have been my beloved, you can't forget! Change yourself, change -me; be another woman, give yourself to love, as I let myself be taken -in the great battle for you! Change yourself, as I change myself! Deny -not the arguments of love; be a woman as other women, as I ask to be a -man in every strife however cruel. Mabel, Mabel, change yourself." - -Holding her in his arms, a breath of scorching words wrapped the girl -as in a fire of flame. For the first time Vittorio Lante saw on that -face, so dazzling with youth and beauty, a lost expression of love and -sorrow. Still, she was made for victory; she was the stronger. Tearing -herself free, she composed her face, and replied: - -"Vittorio, it is impossible." - -"Impossible?" - -"No soul ever changes; at least, not for love. Each soul remains what -it is." - -"It is true," he replied, coldly and sadly. "The soul never changes, -not even for love." - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -A strong, fresh wind was coming from the deep, raising the waters of -the Adriatic in long waves of incomparable light green, to hurl them, -as they curved, rolled, and almost curled in greenish white with a -crown of the whitest foam, and fragrant with the sharp smell of the -sea, on the long, straight shore of the Lido. The waves broke one -after the other, almost on top of each other, on the soft, yellow sand -of the beach, which became dark with ever-increasing dark weals, and -stained by the swelling water as the waves gained ground. Here and -there the little mounds of seaweed and marine refuse on the sand were -invaded, covered, and demolished, as they became higher and lower with -the suction of the waves: here and there holes and little ditches full -of water were being formed. The strong, fresh wind whirled round the -fashionable huts that stretched numerously in a line far along the -straight beach, and whirled around the vast bathing establishment of -the Lido, causing the doors of the little cabins to rattle, and the -linen to flutter, which here and there had been exposed to dry: it -whirled round the immense covered terrace of the _café_, causing the -awnings to flap which were still lowered against the sun. - -Although it was one of the last days of September and the afternoon was -advancing, the sea was thronged here and there with heads of bathers, -whilst the beach was full of people coming and going to and from the -sea, from the cabins and the little wooden staircases and gangways. -Down below on the shore, by the huts, were children of various ages, -watched over by nurses and governesses, who were entering and leaving -the water, flying with little cries of joy from the tallest waves, -rolling on the sand, and jumping up again in a laughing, delightful -group. Rather nearer, black dots, with brightly coloured coifs, large -straw hats, sailing and swimming on the pale green waves, indicated -men and women who were enjoying one of the last days of summer, who -were enjoying the sea with its clear waters and disturbed waves, with -perfumes so exhilarating, and wind so fresh, and the great beach -and soft shore. From the horizon, on the incomparable green of the -Adriatic, two vessels approached in fraternal movement, following, -catching up, and passing each other, but pursuing the same course. One -had three sails, all yellow, of a yellow-ochre, with certain strange -signs of darker yellow on their background; the other had sails of -red-bronze, with designs of deep red. When they were nearer, one could -see that on the yellow sails were designed a cross, nails, a crown of -thorns, to wit, a reminder of the Passion of Jesus Christ; on the other -was a little Madonna of the Carmine--the _Ave Maria Stella_. - -Towards four o'clock the terrace of the _café_, bathed by the sun, -was empty, with its hundred little tables round which the flies -buzzed; some of the awnings were lowered, others were half raised. -Slowly the scene changed. The wind became stronger and fresher from -the depths; the children decided to enter the huts to dress, as they -continued their happy cries; one by one the other bathers re-entered -their cabins. The sea became deserted, only on the shore the number -of persons who were promenading slowly increased, as they tried to -walk on the deep sand where the feet sank. Now and then they halted to -watch the sea, whose waves became higher and whiter with their rounded -crests, as if the better to breathe the grand fresh air, full of -saline aroma. Now other great vessels appeared, more or less in the -offing, with yellow, coppery, and maroon sails, rendered darker by sun -and brine. - -The scene changed on the terrace as the sun declined. All the awnings -were raised, some frequenters appeared to sit by the balustrade that -gives on to the beach, to take a place at the little tables along this -balustrade, whence all the vastness and beauty of that admirable Lido -seascape is to be viewed. The little steamers that perform the small -crossing--less than a crossing, a ferry--between Venice and the island -of the Lido half an hour ago had arrived almost empty, but now they -were sending people continually towards the shore, people who left -the motionless waters of the shining, grey lagoon, crossed the island -still green with little trees, still flourishing with growing flowers -and plants, and came to gaze at the free, resonant Adriatic, with its -wonderful green and white waves, with a sigh of relief and a smile of -greeting for the magnificent Italian sea. - -Two or three tables were at first occupied; other people arrived. -Then the waiters began to glide from table to table, a little bored, -carrying large trays with the necessaries for tea, pink and yellow -_sorbettes_, drinks piled with little pieces of ice, wherein was fixed -a straw. It was not a large crowd, like that of strangers of all -nations in April, when they are mysteriously attired in voluptuous -flattery of the Venetian spring, not the great, indigenous, Italian -crowd of the month of August, that chatters and laughs at the top of -its voice, the ladies dressed in white, fanning themselves, as they -drink large glasses of iced beer, far too much in the German manner! It -was the crowd of the end of September, a little curious and strange, -mingled with foreigners who had come from Switzerland and the Italian -lakes, mingled with the Italians who had come from the Alps to the -plains at the end of the summer season. The crowd round the tables was -small and not chatty or noisy. To the charming, languid, sweet Venetian -dialect issuing from the beautiful lips of women, here and there was -united a French word, but above all was mingled the rough German -talk--in the majority everywhere, as usual. The wind was now very -fresh, and dull the breaking of the waves down below on the soft sand: -a few promenaders went on the shore, watching the warm tints of the -sunset on the horizon, while large vessels filed past with yellow-ochre -sails, from which the Virgin Mary gave her blessing. - -For some time Vittorio Lante remained alone at a small table in a far -corner of the terrace: before him was a tall glass full of a greenish -drink, exhaling a smell of peppermint, but he forgot to sip it. The -keen expression of life, which had distinguished him in the Engadine, -had vanished from the young man's graceful but virile face. He seemed -calm, but without thoughts, and all his features appeared grosser in -that thoughtless calm. His eyes glanced without vivacity, as they -fixed themselves indifferently on the people and things around him; he -was not sad or happy, but indifferent. He smoked a cigarette and lit -another, which remained between his fingers without his bringing it to -his mouth, while a thread of smoke issued from it. Suddenly someone -stopped at his table, bent over him, and called him, as he greeted him -in a low voice. He raised his eyes and was amazed to see Lucio Sabini -standing before him. - -"Dear Vittorio, you here!" - -"Dear Sabini, welcome!" - -They shook hands and looked at each other for a long moment, as if -each wished to read in the other's face the story of the two years in -which they had not seen each other. Certainly Lucio Sabini was the more -deeply changed. His black hair, where up to thirty-five not a single -silver thread had appeared, now was quite streaked with white round -the temples; his face from being thin had become fleshless; his black -eyes that had been so proud seemed extinguished; the shoulders of the -tall, slender figure were a little bent, and all his physiognomy had an -expression of weariness, of failing strength, of vanished energy. - -"Are you alone, Vittorio?" - -"I am here alone, Sabini." - -"Disengaged?" - -"Yes." - -"Then I will sit a little with you." - -He sat down opposite him, and became silent, as he watched the sea. - -"Won't you take something, dear friend?" asked Vittorio, with careful -courtesy. - -"If I must, I will take some sort of coloured water," murmured Lucio -Sabini, and his long, brown, very thin hand brushed his black moustache -in a familiar gesture. Again they looked at each other intensely. Lucio -seemed to make an effort to begin an ordinary conversation. - -"Have you been long in Venice, Vittorio?" - -"No, just a week. We have come from Vallombrosa, where we stayed till -September was advanced." - -"Is Vallombrosa amusing?" - -"No; boring." - -"Your wife, Donna Livia, likes it?" - -"Exactly. She likes forests with their large trees. She lived there -from morning till evening." - -"Is Donna Livia here?" - -"I left her for tea with some friends in Venice, and came here to pass -an hour alone." - -"Is she willing to leave you alone?" - -"She lets me. She knows I like my freedom ... to do nothing with it. So -she herself lets me go free, to please me." - -They spoke in a low voice, bending a little over the table, looking -distractedly, now at the beverages from which they had not sipped a -drop, now a little to their right at the shore and the sea; but their -glances seemed to be aware of nothing. Suddenly Lucio Sabini, fixing -his worn-out eyes on those of Vittorio, questioned him more brightly, -with his dull voice from which all _timbre_ seemed extinguished. - -"Are you happy, Vittorio?" - -"I am not happy, but I am not unhappy," he replied, turning his head -away, as if to hide the sudden expression of his face. - -"Are you contented with that?" - -"I have no choice of anything else," replied Vittorio, with a wan smile. - -"And is Donna Livia happy?" - -"She asks nothing else of life than to have me. She has me." - -"Then all is well, Vittorio?" - -"Yes, for Livia." - -"And for you?" - -"Oh, for me nothing can go well or ill, Sabini." - -This he said with such an accent of indifference, of detachment, that -it amounted more to sadness. After a slight hesitation Lucio resumed: - -"Vittorio, you were ardently in love with that American girl." - -"Ardently is the word," agreed Vittorio Lante, in a rather louder voice. - -"How did you let her escape you?" - -"I gave her up." - -"Although you loved her?" - -"Yes, although I adored her, I gave her up." - -"But why?" - -"So as not to be dishonoured, Lucio. Had I married her I should have -been dishonoured." - -"Because of her money." - -"Exactly; because of her superfluity of money, her immense amount of -money; because of my immense poverty." - -A soft veil passed before Vittorio's eyes. The other looked at him, and -said: - -"It hurts you, then, to talk of this?" - -"Yes, now and then it hurts me; but the pain is always less, and always -at greater intervals, Sabini. I am almost cured." - -"Did you suffer much?" - -"Very much, as if I should die of it. However, I am not dead; it seems -one doesn't die of that." - -"Do you think so?" asked Lucio, waving a hand. - -"I don't know," he murmured; "I had my mother, whom I ought not to make -more unhappy; perhaps I was unworthy to conceive a lofty sorrow. Who -knows? I haven't been given either a great soul or great will. It is -not my fault if I am not dead, if I am almost healed." - -This time a sense of irony against himself and his own mediocrity -escaped from his indifference. - -"Poor Vittorio!" said Lucio, pressing his hand across the table, "tell -me everything. You can tell me everything, I can understand." - -"Oh, mine isn't such an interesting story!" exclaimed Vittorio, with a -pale smile of irony; "if you like, it is rather a stupid story. I was -such a fool in the Engadine! I went there to find a girl, neither too -beautiful nor too ugly, and not very rich, who could drag my mother -and myself out of our difficulties; I went with a definite programme, -a vulgar but definite programme, unromantic but definite, that of a -dowry-hunter. Instead of looking for a mediocre girl, with a dowry of -six or seven hundred thousand lire, like a child, like an idiot, I make -straight for Mabel Clarke, who has fifty millions. I put forward my -candidature as a flirt to good purpose, and conquered all rivals. Fool, -thrice a fool that I was! Instead of keeping my presence of mind, and -all my wits, I fall in love with her because she is beautiful, fresh, -young, new, and of another race; because we were free, and left free, -as is the American custom, as you know quite well, so that at last the -girl of fifty millions falls in love with me." - -"She did love you, then?" - -"Yes, she loved me in her way," answered Vittorio, shortly. - -"She suffered through you." - -"She suffered less intensely, but longer, perhaps. Even in this she -beat me, Lucio! What a common story, is it not? How could I have -thought that the world and my destiny would have permitted me to marry -Mabel Clarke with her fifty millions, to be the son-in-law of John -Clarke, who, at his death, would have left other two hundred millions? -I? I? And why? Who was I, more than another, of my country or another, -of my set or another, who was I to reach to such power? I was neither -a true pleasure-seeker, nor properly vicious, nor a cynic. Seriously, -I was nothing but a--calculator. I was nothing serious, my friend. If -I had been in earnest as a calculator I should not have fallen in love -with Mabel Clarke. What a mistake, or rather, what a _gaucherie_!" - -"You can't forget her, Vittorio," whispered Lucio, looking at him with -tender eyes. - -"You are wrong. I forget her more and more. Besides, have I not married -Livia?" - -"Why did you make that marriage?" - -"_Que faire?_" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. "I was so sad, -so broken in bone and soul, as if I had fallen from a precipice, and -had been dragged out half living. I was so bored. And poor little -Livia was languishing in silence waiting for me. And did not my -mother look at me with beseeching eyes every time I went to Terni? I -married through sadness, fastidiousness, weakness, to make an end of -everything, and, as you see, in spite of all my ardent love for Mabel -Clarke I did not know how to be faithful to her for more than a year. -The American girl had foreseen it--Mabel Clarke was stronger, wiser, -more direct than I, and much better too. She humbled me in sending a -rich gift to Livia on her wedding, and she invited us to America. Ah, -how strange these women are!" - -"She invited you to America? She writes to you?" - -"Often, long letters. From the very first she wanted me to go to -America to gain money with John Clarke, and she did not believe she -would offend me by asking me." - -They were both silent for a moment, absorbed and concentrated. Around -them people began to leave the tables, as the shadows of dusk were -falling from the sky on sea and beach and the flowered island; but they -were unaware of it. - -"Besides, dear Sabini," resumed Vittorio, with a degree of greater -sarcasm, "I am less poor than I was formerly. Then I spent too much -to find the heiress with the great fortune, to live grandly, and to -travel. When I announced that I was marrying Livia, Uncle Costrucci, -an old clerical, was moved, and let us have, for our natural lifetime, -a beautiful suite of apartments in old Rome, in via Botheghe Oscure. -Mamma has come to live with us, and her cousin, Farnese, made her a -present of a carriage. Ours is a marriage which has been made by public -subscription! We have our house and our carriage. Livia is so charming -in her discreet _toilettes_, discreet in every fashion. I haven't -to strive as I thought, I have not even been forced to work as I -supposed. There is nothing of the heroic in me--a mediocre destiny, and -a mediocre life!" - -"Ah, Vittorio, you still suffer," said Lucio, in a deeply moved voice. - -"In my _amour-propre_, I confess. Think, Lucio, how I have been -treated--surrounded, knocked on the head like a lamb under calumnies, -defamations and vituperations, in every land where international -society gathers--and how I have been unable to cuff a single one of -my adversaries. Think how rivers of ink have been poured out in the -papers of two worlds to defame me, and how I have been unable to spit -in the face of a single one of those journalists; think how I have been -unable to defend myself or offer a fight, solely because I loved Mabel -and Mabel loved me. And afterwards, Lucio, what an incurable offence -to my _amour-propre_, this breaking off the marriage, which sanctions -the calumnies, this breaking off ... and how everyone laughed at me -afterwards, and if they do not laugh at Livia and me now it is because -we are a quiet, modest _ménage_ that lives in the shade--we are an -insignificant couple now." - -"Another man, Vittorio, would never have consented to breaking off the -marriage." - -"Another! I consented because I loved Mabel; I loved her like a -child, like a Don Quixote, with such fire and devotion as to become a -hero--and I so mediocre! Through love I renounced my every good, but -of my own free will. Ah, if I had not loved her! If I had been a cold -and interested man, even under the impulse of an amorous caprice; if -I had kept my clearness of mind, even in flirting to extremes, how -different everything would have been. If I had not loved her I could -have fled with her ten times from the Engadine, and she would have -been compromised and the marriage would have been inevitable. If I had -not loved her I would not so ingenuously have allowed her to set out -alone for America; if I had not loved her I would have provoked a duel -at every defamation and reduced my defamers to silence. At the first -injurious article of the American newspapers I would have gone over -there to make them show cause in the law courts; if I had not loved -her I should have been able to force her to keep her engagements, and -I should have obtained her by force, her and her fortune; but I should -have obtained her. I loved her, and I destroyed my happiness and my -life." - -With dreamy eyes, full of incurable sadness, he gazed at the Adriatic -which was becoming intensely green, like an emerald, in the twilight. -He added: - -"Lucio, love has been my mistake; I committed suicide because of it. -But what is more laughable and grotesque, I survive my suicide." - -In spite of his cold delirium, as he turned to Lucio he perceived that -he had become pale, as if he were about to die; he saw that Lucio's -thin brown hand was pressing his cigarette-case convulsively. Vittorio -composed himself, turned towards his friend, and touching his hand -lightly, said: - -"How I beg your pardon! I must have bored you so much with this tale of -my woes." - -Lucio Sabini bowed a denial with a vague and sad gesture of his hand, -without replying; he bowed his denial with a vague smile that vanished -immediately. - -"Do not think that I tell everyone how it still torments me in the -depths of my soul; no one knows anything of it; none must know. But you -went up with me to the Engadine on a summer evening, do you remember? -You were a witness of my joy up there." - -"And also you, Vittorio, were my witness up there," murmured Lucio, -grimly and gloomily. - -Vittorio trembled and leant over the table to Lucio. - -"Ah, that too is a sad story," he murmured. - -"Sad do you call it, only sad?" exclaimed the other, with a great -vibration of sorrow in his voice. Confused and disturbed, Vittorio in -his turn stammered: - -"I knew--I read." - -"What did you know? What did you read?" asked Lucio Sabini in a strong, -vibrant voice. - -"In the papers ... a few lines ... I read of Miss Lilian Temple's -accident," added Vittorio in a low voice. - -"You mean to say Miss Lilian Temple's death, my friend," exclaimed -Lucio, with a strange accent; "she is dead, my friend." - -"I did not wish to pronounce the word death, my friend," Vittorio -replied quietly. - -Now they were alone on the terrace, on which the evening was -descending. Everyone had left to take the little steamer back to Venice -from the other side of the Lido. The terrace was quite deserted, and -all the Lido shore, whose yellow sand remained bright beneath the -evening shadows; and deserted the ample Adriatic, now of the deepest -green in the evening gloom. - -"She was twenty," said a weak, feeble voice, which Vittorio hardly -recognised as Lucio's. - -"It is very early to die." - -"I ought to have died, I who am thirty-seven, and have lived double -that time, I who am tired, old, and finished with everything. It was -just that I should die, not she, who was twenty," said the weak voice. - -"But how did the accident happen?" asked Vittorio. - -"What accident?" - -"The Alpine catastrophe in which the poor little girl perished." - -Ah, what a horrible smile of torture contracted Lucio's livid lips! - -"There was no accident, there was no Alpine catastrophe. Miss Lilian -Temple killed herself." - -"Killed herself?" cried Vittorio, stupefied. - -"She killed herself." - -"Are you sure of it?" - -"As of my life and death. She killed herself." - -"Ah, how cruel! how atrocious!" broke in Vittorio. - -"And she was only twenty," replied the feeble voice again, like a -lament. - -A heavy, lugubrious silence fell upon the twain, in that solitary -corner of the great deserted terrace before the Adriatic. - -"Would you like to read her last words, Vittorio?" asked Lucio. - -The other started and nodded. Lucio drew out from an inner pocket his -pocket-book, took from it a long white envelope, and drew delicately -from it a picture post card. The two friends bent forward together -over that piece of paper to distinguish its design and read the words -thereon. On one side the post card had the address written in slender, -tall calligraphy and firm handwriting, "_à Don Lucio Sabini, Lung' Arno -Serristori, Firenze_." The postage-stamp was of the 24th of April of -the previous year, and came from the Hospice of the Bernina. On the -other side was a great panorama of glaciers, of lofty, terrible peaks, -and printed beneath the German words, "_Gruss vom Diavolezza_." The -same slender, upright characters had written, in a corner of the card, -beneath the great strip of white of the glacier in English, "For ever, -my love.--Lilian." Both raised their heads and looked at each other. - -"She died the next day, the 25th of April," said Lucio, holding the -card in his hands and gazing at it, as if he saw it for the first -time. "These are her last words. She wrote them in the Hospice of -the Bernina, and posted them in the letter-box of the façade of the -Hospice. Next morning she left very early for La Diavolezza; at four -o'clock in the afternoon she was dead, having fallen headlong from a -lofty crevasse of the Isola Persa." - -He spoke slowly, with a precise accent, that rendered even more -sorrowful the expression of his words. - -"Would you like to see where she died, Vittorio?" he resumed. "Look -carefully." - -Again, with tragic curiosity in the evening half-light, the two men -leant over that funereal document. - -"Look carefully. This is La Diavolezza, a mountain which is climbed -without great difficulty, and where is unfolded an immense panorama of -glaciers and peaks. I have been there and described it to her. Look -carefully; she reached as far as here, and rested only an hour in this -Alpine hut. She wanted to proceed at once to the glacier here, where it -is marked, the Perso Glacier, this great black moraine that cuts the -glacier in two, which is called the Isola Persa--it is written beneath. -Look closely; you will not discover the crevasse where she fell, where -_she wished to fall_, but it is here--where she wished to fall and to -die." - -"But how do you know?" - -"She cut the rope which fastened her to her guide with a knife." - -"Who told you that?" - -"The guide told me: I saw the little torn piece of cut rope. I went -over all Lilian Temple's last journey," said Lucio gloomily. - -Suddenly he threw himself with arms and head on the table, holding to -his mouth the post card whereon were written Lilian Temple's last words -murmuring with tearless sighs that rent his breast: - -"Oh, my love, my love ... at twenty." - -Silent, astonished, Vittorio waited till the moment of weak anguish -passed. Then he leant towards the man, whose sighs became less, and -said to him: - -"Lucio, pull yourself together. Let us go away." The electric lamps, -which had been suddenly lit, illuminated the terrace; the waiters -arrived with linen, glass, and silver to set the tables for dinner, -since foreigners and Venetians, on warm evenings, came to dine there in -the open air before the sea, where one of the usual orchestras played. -There was a coming and going of these waiters, and a rattling of glass -and china. In dull, equal, monotonous voice, the Adriatic broke against -the shores of the Lido. The wind had fallen. - -"Let us go away," repeated Vittorio. - -With a rapid movement Lucio started up: his eyes were red, although he -had shed no tears, his face seemed feverish. Both approached the exit, -crossed the theatre hall and the vestibule, and found themselves at the -door. They went out into the island before the large central avenue, -where the tramway runs amongst the trees, gardens, and villas. They had -not uttered a single word. When once again they were in the open air -before the little square where the tramway stops Lucio said shortly: - -"Shall we walk across the island, Vittorio? We shall always find a -steamer on the other side to take us back to Venice." - -"Let us walk." - -They walked in silence along the little garden in course of -construction, by villas hardly finished, beneath the young trees, -amidst the white electric lamps and the shadows formed between the -lamps. Suddenly Lucio Sabini stopped. He leant over the fence of a -garden covered with rambler roses and said in a desperate voice: - -"Vittorio, I killed Lilian Temple." - -"Don't say that, don't say that." - -"I committed the crime, Vittorio. I killed her. It is as if I had taken -her by the hand, led her up there to the Isola Persa, and pointing -to the precipice had said to her--'_Throw yourself down_.' Thus am I -guilty." - -"Your reasonable grief blinds you, Lucio." - -"No, no," he answered in his desperate voice, "I am not blind, I am -not mad. Time has passed over my sorrow: it has become vast and deep -like a great, black lake which I have in the depths of my soul. I am -neither mad nor blind. I exist, I live, I perform coldly and surely -all the acts of life. Nevertheless, I committed a crime, in thrusting -Lilian Temple to her death with my very own hands." - -"But you are not an assassin, you are not a cruel man," protested -Vittorio vehemently. "You could not have done it." - -"That is true: I am not an assassin, I am not a cruel man, but every -unconscious word of mine, every unconscious act of mine, was a mortal -thrust whereby this creature of beauty and purity, whereby this gentle -creature should go to her death." - -His sharp, despairing voice broke in tenderness. They began to walk -again, side by side. - -"You loved her then, Lucio?" asked Vittorio affectionately. - -"Yes, I loved her very much; but with a sudden and violent love -which made me forget my slavery, my galley, and the rough chain that -oppresses me. I loved her, but I ought to have been silent and not -have lost my peace and made her lose her peace. Here began my sad sin, -Vittorio." - -"Did she know nothing about you? Did you tell her nothing?" - -"Nothing: she knew nothing; she wished to know nothing. Thus she gave -me her heart and her life. I ought to have spoken; I ought to have told -her everything. I was so madly in love. I was silent and in my silence -deceived her. Ah, what a sin! What a terrible sin was that!" - -"Did no one warn her?" - -"No one. Her soul was mine without a doubt or a thought, with immense -certainty." - -"But didn't you in all this understand the danger into which you were -both running?" - -"I didn't understand," replied Lucio Sabini, tragically. "I didn't -understand Lilian Temple's love till after her death." - -"You knew that she loved you?" - -"Yes, but how many others have loved me for a fortnight or a month, -afterwards to forget me!" - -"Did she not tell you how much she loved you?" - -"She told me a little, but I did not understand." - -"But did she not show you?" - -"She showed me a little, but I didn't understand. My eyes did not know -how to read her soul or guess the riddle of her heart." - -"But why? Why?" - -"Because she was of another country, of another race; because she was -another soul different from all the other souls I have known; because I -had another heart. Lilian was unknown to me, and I let her die." - -Slowly they reached the end of the long avenue that divides the little -island and reached the shore of the lagoon, where no majestic hotels -and sumptuous villas arise, but old Venetian houses of fishermen, -sailors, and gondoliers. Already in the nocturnal gloom lights were -to be seen flickering on the turbid waters. Once again Lucio stopped, -as if speaking to himself; Vittorio stopped beside him, patiently, -affectionately, pitifully. - -"Oh, these Englishwomen, these Englishwomen," he said, passing his -hand over his forehead. "Even if they are very young, even if they -are twenty, as my poor love, as my poor Lilian, they have an interior -life of singular intensity, whilst an absolute calm reigns in their -faces and actions. They hide sentiments within their souls with a -force, power, and ardour which would stupefy and frighten us if we -could see within them for an instant. They have an absolute power -over themselves and their expressions, a surprising domination over -every manifestation. These Englishwomen--Lilian, Lilian mine! They -say what they mean, not a word more, they express what they wish to -express, no more; they know how to control themselves in the most -impetuous moments of life, they know how to encloister themselves when -everyone else would expand, and they find their greatest pride in their -spiritual isolation, apart from whatever surrounds them, whatever is -happening, far-away, closed in their interior life, in their kingdom, -in their temple. Their heart is their temple. How often my dear Lilian -was silent beside me, and I did not understand how full of things was -her silence: how often she would have liked to fall into my arms, but -restrained herself and merely smiled: how often she would have liked to -cry and not a tear fell from her beautiful eyes; how often I found her -cold, indifferent, apart from me, and never perhaps had she been more -mine than in that moment. So I understood not how she loved me, because -she was of another race, strong, firm, thoughtful, taciturn, faithful; -because Lilian had another soul and all her soul escaped me." - -They had now passed on to the pier, beneath its wooden roof, to take -the steamer which should bring them back to Venice. But no steamer was -leaving at that moment, although far-off two large red lights were to -be seen approaching rapidly towards the shores of the Lido. The two -friends sat down on a wooden bench, in a badly lit corner, and resumed -their conversation _sotto voce_, for other travellers were there, -waiting with them for the steamer. - -"These Englishwomen," resumed Lucio, speaking as if in a sad dream. "On -a day in February there comes to my home, in Florence, Lilian's best -friend, her most affectionate guardian, Miss May Ford, she who always -accompanied her at St. Moritz: you remember her? And the good old -maid stands there, quiet, imperturbable, while she asks an explanation -of such a serious matter, that is, why I have deserted Lilian Temple; -and she asks me with such simplicity and indifference, almost as if -it were a matter of the least importance, and my pain and sorrowful -embarrassment caused her wonder. She does not defend Lilian, nor -Lilian's love, but is at once content with my reasons. Not that only! -When I ask her to use her good influence to make Lilian forget me, she -at once promises to do so. If I suggest that she should tell Lilian -that I love her, but that I ought not, that I shall always love her, -but still I ought to fly from her, Miss Ford declares that she will not -give this message because it would make her worse; and finally when -I, to show her what an invincible and mortal reason prevents me from -loving Lilian, tell her of my adultery, that is of my sad servitude, -when I suggest to her that a lady could kill herself if I desert her -for Lilian; coldly, without protesting, she agrees to bear this embassy -of death. Do you understand, Vittorio? Miss May is tenderly fond of -Lilian, knows, perhaps, that Lilian loves me deeply, knows, perhaps, -that Lilian will not forget me, that she will never console herself for -my desertion, yet through reserve, correctness, moderation, through -that proud habit of sentimental modesty, that habit of proud and noble -silence which these Englishwomen have, so as not to humiliate me or -herself, so as not to humiliate her friend, to conceal from herself, -from me, and all whatever there was exalting and agonising in our drama -of love, this Englishwoman says nothing to me and to Lilian; only a -few--very few--words, the least number of words possible, a single -phrase, the one necessary, which she had asked from me to take back to -her, and she takes back this single phrase--and it was an embassy of -death!" - -"And did not Miss Ford even know Lilian's heart and of her love?" -murmured Vittorio sadly; "did they confide little or nothing to each -other, through respect and modesty?" - -"Not even Miss Ford understood. One day in April Lilian disappeared -from her home in London. She left not a letter or a note for her -father; she did not write to Miss Ford, who at that moment was in -Somersetshire--nothing, she disappeared. After ten days, in which -Lilian's father placed an advertisement every day in the _Times_ in -search of her, to get her to return, the news of her death arrived." - -"Probably not even her family understood that it was a question of -suicide." - -"Yes," murmured Lucio Sabini in a thin voice, "they caused it to be -said that it was an accident: perhaps they believed it was an accident." - -There was a short silence. - -"In my post card, Vittorio, you read but two words, which could be a -sorrowful farewell, a sad and tender remembrance. She covered with -modesty and silence her passion and her death." - -The little steamer was already at the pier, the gangway had been thrown -across, fifteen or twenty passengers crossed it and passed into the -boat. They scattered here and there on benches along the steamer's -sides, which set off again immediately. Lucio and Vittorio went and sat -in the front of the boat, at the prow, receiving in their faces the -fresh evening breeze, no longer the strong wind of the day which for -so many hours had blown from the Adriatic on the shores of the Lido, -but the little wind of the lagoon which scarcely ruffled the blackish -waters, a breeze that blew from the Canal of the Giudecca and rendered -more charming the Venetian evening. With even movement the little -steamer threaded its way, cleaving the almost motionless waters; making -for the brown, fragrant mass, in the evening light, of the Venetian -gardens. Below a bright clear light was spreading itself over the -city and waters. Towards San Marco and the Grand Canal the light was -completely white, while other lights from palaces, houses, steamers, -and gondolas waved and scintillated everywhere, far and near, throwing -soft streaks of light and flying gleams over the waters. Silent and -tired the two friends remained seated, almost as if they were unaware -of the movement, so regular was the going of the little boat; and -they were unaware of sounds, as everything around them was peace and -shadow. Venice flashed with light that brightened the shadows of the -lagoon, the houses, and the sky, and she seemed surrounded by a starry -aureole; but they did not even look at the majestic spectacle, as if -in the desolation of their souls neither beauty nor poesy of things -could attract them. The steamer bent to the right to the stopping-place -at the gardens: a louder and duller noise spoke of their arrival, the -gangway was thrown across to the pier; a few embarked for Venice, but -no one got off. The steamer drew farther away noisily, and resumed its -course in the middle of the lagoon. - -"Now I am going to find my accomplice," said Lucio in a dry voice. - -"Accomplice?" - -"Exactly. Beatrice Herz strangely helped me to kill Lilian," added -Lucio, with a sneer in the gloom. - -"Is she here in Venice?" - -"Of course! How could my accomplice be elsewhere? Where I go, she goes; -where she goes, I follow. We are inseparable, dearest Victor. Oh, it is -touching!" - -And a stridulous laugh of irony escaped him. - -"Did she know all?" asked Vittorio in a low voice. - -"From the first moment," resumed Lucio in a voice become dry and hard. -"When I separated myself from Lilian, enamoured as I was, wildly in -love, in fact, I had a mad hope, I believed in a generous madness, and -told Beatrice Herz everything. Was she not at bottom a woman of heart? -Had she not suffered atrociously for love? Had she not a very tender -attachment for me? I believed in the superiority of her mind and her -magnanimity; I asked for an heroic deed. I had loved and served her for -ten years; I had given her my youth, and consumed my most beautiful -hours and strength for her; I asked her to dismiss me as a good, -loving, and true servant, who had accomplished his cycle of servitude, -and at last wished to be free. Humbly and ardently I begged her, with -tears in my eyes, turning to her as to a sacred image, to perform the -miracle, to give me liberty, to allow me yet to live some years of good -and happiness--the few that remained to me for love." - -"Well?" asked Vittorio, with sad curiosity. - -"I believed Beatrice Herz to be a heroine, capable of a great proof -of altruism; I believed her capable of a sentimental miracle. On the -contrary, she is a mean little woman, a wretched, egotistical creature, -a puppet without thought or heart, in whom my love and my illusion had -placed something of the sublime. She is nothing. She refused precisely; -she was as arid as pumice-stone; she had not a moment's pity or a -single trace of emotion. She sees nothing but herself and her social -interests. Instead of giving me my freedom she abandoned herself to -such scenes of jealousy, now ferocious, now trivial, from which I -escaped each time worn-out and nauseated." - -"Had you never the strength to break with her?" - -"I hadn't the strength," added Lucio sharply. "Of recent years she -has threatened to kill herself when I spoke of leaving her. I always -believed her. When it was a question of Lilian her threats became even -more violent; twice I had to snatch from her hands a little revolver. -But it was really nothing, Vittorio! It wasn't true! I was deceived -in the first place, and was deceived afterwards. Beatrice Herz never -meant to kill herself for me. I have lived ten years with this woman, -and she has succeeded in deceiving me. She is not the sort of woman to -kill herself. Even in this I have been disillusioned about her. She is -a paltry little woman, nothing else." - -"Still she loved you; she confronted dangers for you; she compromised -herself and lost her name for you." - -"Yes, yes, yes! But adultery with all its waste and lies, adultery -with all its corruptions, this adultery prolonged to the boredom and -disgust of both, only for womanly vanity, the great vanity of not being -deserted, has conquered all her pride." - -"You reproach her with her sin!" - -"I reproach myself as well as her. I reproach myself as well as her for -having sent Lilian Temple to her death." - -"Beatrice did not know." - -"Beatrice did not deserve to," exclaimed Lucio, again becoming exalted. -"She deserved no sacrifice, neither mine nor Lilian's--I keep telling -her that." - -"You tell her that!" - -"Always. Our life is a hell," added Lucio gloomily. - -"But doesn't Beatrice try with sweetness...." - -"Sweetness? Don't you know that she is jealous of my poor Lilian, of my -poor dead one? Don't you know that she still makes scenes of jealousy?" - -"Oh!" - -"It is so. When I read in the papers the dread news, when I read -Lilian's poor, sweet, last words from up there, and understood that -she had killed herself, like one possessed I set off by night for the -Engadine. Ah, Vittorio, Vittorio, that second journey to ascend there -from Chiavenna, what atrocious anxiety all that journey which I made -alone, to the Maloja, to St. Moritz, to the Bernina, in a time of -perfect solitude, with the snow hardly melted, with St. Moritz still -shut up as if dead. The roads were still difficult, as everywhere I -followed step for step the tracks of my poor little one who had gone -up there, who had lovingly and piously visited all the places where we -had been together--step for step after Lilian's tracks until one night -I slept in the house of the guide who had seen her die; the man's eyes -were full of tears as he told me of her death. Well, when I, full of -horror and sorrow, pierced by remorse, unconsoled and unconsolable, -came away, whatever do you think Beatrice Herz did? She came to meet -me in the Engadine, to snatch me back. She said so--just to snatch me -back. I found her in the inn at Chiavenna, whence she was hurrying to -ascend to the Engadine. I found her there, and instead of weeping with -me, instead of asking pardon of God, she acted a scene of jealousy, and -insulted the dead and me." - -"Oh, how horrible!" - -"Horrible! For that matter I told her a great and simple truth, which -made her rave, and always makes her rave; so I repeat it to her." - -"What was that?" - -"That she had loved me ten years, and did not know how to die for me, -and that Lilian Temple had loved me one month and had died for me." - -"She must suffer atrociously from all this?" - -"Atrociously. I hate Beatrice Herz, and she hates me." - -"Yet you remain together?" - -"Always. All our lives. Only death, longed-for death, will free us," -said Lucio with a sigh. - -They gradually drew near to the pier of San Marco; the lagoon was full -of gondolas, white and red lights caught the steamer and showed up -faces. - -"Listen, Vittorio," said Lucio, placing a hand tenderly on his friend's -arm, "your love adventure has caused you to suffer much; but to-morrow -you will be healed, because you have no remorse, because you have -accomplished a lofty duty of honour in destroying your happiness; but -you have no remorse. Create none, Vittorio. When at last the beautiful, -dazzling figure of Mabel Clarke has vanished from your spirit, love -your wife, who is good and sweet, who has been humble and patient, who -is fond of you, and attends your good. Love her, not another woman; -love her, and never the woman of another. Vittorio, don't be lost as I -am lost; don't throw to the monster adultery--your flesh, and senses, -and heart. Don't create for yourself remorses which will render your -life a place of torment as it is for me." - -They reached the Riva degli Schiavoni, the waters were astir with -gondolas, and the _Riva_ with people, and full of light and bustle. -They went ashore together. They stood silently for a few moments -before separating, while around them life was humming, though pale and -exhausted they were unaware of it. - -"Do you remember Chassellas?" asked Lucio, with singular sweetness. - -"Yes, I remember it. I went there with Mabel," replied the other, with -repressed emotion. - -"Do you know the little Engadine cemetery near there?" - -"I know it, we gathered flowers there one day, Mabel and I." - -"Lilian is buried there; not far from poor Massimo Granata. I too shall -sleep there one day; the soonest possible, Vittorio." - -Vittorio, pale and exhausted, looked at him. - -"I long to die," said Lucio Sabini. - -They said nothing more, but separated. - - - THE END - - - PRINTED BY - WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. - PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND - - - * * * * * - - - - - TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES - - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber. - -The book cover was modified by the Transcriber and has been added to -the public domain. - -A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated -variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used -has been kept. - -Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Desire of Life, by Matilde Serao - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESIRE OF LIFE *** - -***** This file should be named 61109-0.txt or 61109-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/1/0/61109/ - -Produced by Andrés V. 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