I WALKED back to my house. It was very silent, and as I passed up the stairs the servants shrunk back with averted faces, as if they were afraid to look at me.

'Where is Fabio?' I asked.

A page whispered timidly,—

'In the chapel.'

I turned on my heel, and passed through the rooms, one after another, till I came to the chapel door. I pushed it open and entered. A dim light came through the painted windows, and I could hardly see. In the centre were two bodies covered with a cloth, and their heads were lighted by the yellow gleam of candles. At their feet knelt an old man, praying. It was Fabio.

I advanced and drew back the cloth; and I fell on my knees. Giulia looked as if she were sleeping. I had so often leant over her, watching the regular heaving of the breast, and sometimes I had thought her features as calm and relaxed as if she were dead. But now the breast would no more rise and fall, and its wonderful soft whiteness was disfigured by a gaping wound. Her eyes were closed and her lips half parted, and the only difference from life was the fallen jaw. Her face was very pale; the rich waving hair encircled it as with an aureole.

I looked at him, and he, too, was pale, and his fair hair contrasted wonderfully with hers. He looked so young!

Then, as I knelt there, and the hours passed slowly, I thought of all that had happened, and I tried to understand. The dim light from the window gradually failed, and the candles in the darkness burnt out more brightly; each was surrounded by a halo of light, and lit up the dead faces, throwing into deeper night the rest of the chapel.

Little by little I seemed to see into the love of these two which had been so strong, that no ties of honour, faith, or truth had been able to influence it. And this is what I imagined, trying to console myself.

 

When she was sixteen, I thought, they married her to an old man she had never seen, and she met her husband's cousin, a boy no older than herself. And the love started and worked its way. But the boy lived on his rich cousin's charity; from him he had received a home and protection and a thousand kindnesses; he loved against his will, but he loved all the same. And she, I thought, had loved like a woman, passionately, thoughtless of honour and truth. In the sensual violence of her love she had carried him away, and he had yielded. Then with enjoyment had come remorse, and he had torn himself away from the temptress and fled.

I hardly knew what had happened when she was left alone, pining for her lover. Scandal said evil things.... Had she, too, felt remorse and tried to kill her love, and had the attempt failed? And was it then she flung herself into dissipation to drown her trouble? Perhaps he told her he did not love her, and she in despair may have thrown herself in the arms of other lovers. But he loved her too strongly to forget her; at last he could not bear the absence and came back. And again with enjoyment came remorse, and, ashamed, he fled, hating himself, despising her.

The years passed by, and her husband died. Why did he not come back to her? Had he lost his love and was he afraid? I could not understand....

Then she met me. Ah, I wondered what she felt. Did she love me? Perhaps his long absence had made her partly forget him, and she thought he had forgotten her. She fell in love with me, and I—I loved her with all my heart. I knew she loved me then; she must have loved me! But he came back. He may have thought himself cured, he may have said that he could meet her coldly and indifferently. Had I not said the same? But as they saw one another the old love burst out, again it burnt them with consuming fire, and Giulia hated me because I had made her faithless to the lover of her heart.

 

The candles were burning low, throwing strange lights and shadows on the faces of the dead.

 

Poor fool! His love was as powerful as ever, but he fought against it with all the strength of his weak will. She was the Evil One to him; she took his youth from him, his manhood, his honour, his strength; he felt that her kisses degraded him, and as he rose from her embrace he felt vile and mean. He vowed never to touch her again, and every time he broke the vow. But her love was the same as ever—passionate, even heartless. She cared not if she consumed him as long as she loved him. For her he might ruin his life, he might lose his soul. She cared for nothing; it was all and all for love.

He fled again, and she turned her eyes on me once more. Perhaps she felt sorry for my pain, perhaps she fancied my love would efface the remembrance of him. And we were married. Ah! now that she was dead I could allow her good intentions. She may have intended to be faithful to me; she may have thought she could truly love and honour me. Perhaps she tried; who knows? But love—love cares not for vows. It was too strong for her, too strong for him. I do not know whether she sent for him, or whether he, in the extremity of his passion, came to her; but what had happened so often happened again. They threw everything to the winds, and gave themselves over to the love that kills....

The long hours passed as I thought of these things, and the candles were burnt to their sockets.

At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard Fabio's voice.

'Master, it is nearly morning.'

I stood up, and he added,—

'They put him in the chapel without asking me. You are not angry?'

'They did well!'

He hesitated a moment and then asked,—

'What shall I do?'

I looked at him, not understanding.

'He cannot remain here, and she—she must be buried.'

'Take them to the church, and lay them in the tomb my father built—together.'

'The man too?' he asked. 'In your own tomb?'

I sighed and answered sadly,—

'Perhaps he loved her better than I.'

As I spoke I heard a sob at my feet. A man I had not seen took hold of my hand and kissed it, and I felt it wet with tears.

'Who are you?' I asked.

'He has been here all the night,' said Fabio.

'He was my master and I loved him,' replied the kneeling figure in a broken voice. 'I thank you that you do not cast him out like a dog.'

I looked at him and felt deep pity for his grief.

'What will you do now?' I asked.

'Alas! now I am a wreck that tosses on the billows without a guide.'

I did not know what to say to him.

'Will you take me as your servant? I will be very faithful.'

'Do you ask me that?' I said. 'Do you not know—'

'Ah, yes! you took the life that he was glad to lose. It was almost a kindness; and now you bury him peacefully, and for that I love you. You owe it to me; you have robbed me of a master, give me another.'

'No, poor friend! I want no servants now. I too am like a wreck that drifts aimlessly across the seas. With me, too, it is finished.'

I looked once more at Giulia, and then I replaced the white cloth, and the faces were covered.

'Bring me my horse, Fabio.'

In a few minutes it was waiting for me.

'Will you have no one to accompany you?' he asked.

'No one!'

Then, as I mounted and arranged the reins in my hand, he said,—

'Where are you going?'

And I despairingly answered,—

'God knows!'