Gilio hated the villeggiatura at San Stefano. Every morning he had to be up and dressed by six o’clock, with Prince Ercole, Urania and the marchesa, to hear mass said by the chaplain in the private chapel of the castle. After that, he did not know what to do with his time. He had gone bicycling once or twice with Bob Hope, but the young Far-Westerner had too much energy for him, like Bob’s sister, Urania. He flirted and argued a little with CornÉlie, but secretly he was still offended and angry with himself and her. He remembered her first arrival that evening at the Palazzo Ruspoli, when she came and disturbed his rendez-vous with Urania. And in the camera degli sposi she had for the second time been too much for him! He seethed with fury when he thought of it and he hated her and swore by all his gods to be revenged. He cursed his own lack of resolution. He had been too weak to use violence or force and there ought never to have been any need to resort to force: he was accustomed to a quick surrender. And he had to be told by her, that Dutchwoman, that his temperament did not respond to hers! What was there about that woman? What did she mean by it? He was so unaccustomed to thinking, he was such a thoughtless, easy-going, Italian child of nature, so accustomed to let his life run on according to his every whim and impulse, that he hardly understood her—though he suspected the meaning of her words—hardly understood that reserve of hers. Why should she behave so to him, this foreigner with her demoniacal new ideas, who cared nothing about the world, who would have nothing to do with marriage, who lived with a painter as his mistress! She had no religion and no morals—he knew about religion and morals—she belonged to the devil; demoniacal was what she was: didn’t she know all about Aunt Lucia Belloni’s manoeuvres? And hadn’t Aunt Lucia warned him lately that she was a dangerous woman, an uncanny woman, a woman of the devil? She was a witch! Why should she refuse? Hadn’t he plainly seen her figure last night going through the courtyard in the moonlight, beside Van der Staal’s figure, and hadn’t he seen them opening the door that led to the terrace by the pergola? And hadn’t he waited an hour, two hours, without sleeping, until he saw them come back and lock the door after them? And why did she love only him, that painter? Oh, he hated him, with all the blazing hatred of his jealousy; he hated her, for her exclusiveness, for her disdain, for all her jesting and flirting, as though he were a buffoon, a clown! What was it that he asked? A favour of love, such as she granted her lover! He was not asking for anything serious, any oath or lifelong tie; he asked for so little: just one hour of love. It was of no importance: he had never looked upon that as of much importance. And she, she refused it to him! No, he did not understand her, but what he did understand was that she disdained him; and he, he hated the pair of them. And yet he was enamoured of her with all the violence of his thwarted passion. In the boredom of that villeggiatura, to which his wife forced him in her new love for their ruined eyrie, his hatred and the thought of his revenge formed an occupation for his empty brains. Outwardly he was the same as usual and flirted with CornÉlie, flirted even more than usual, to annoy Van der Staal. And, when his cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla—his “white” cousin, the lady-in-waiting to the queen—came to spend a few days with them, he flirted with her too and tried to provoke CornÉlie’s jealousy. He failed in this, however, and consoled himself with the countess, who made up to him for his disappointment. She was no longer a young woman, but represented the cold, sculptured Juno type, with a rather foolish expression; she had Juno eyes, protruding from their sockets; she was a leader of fashion at the Quirinal and in the “white” world; and her reputation for gallantry was generally known. She had never had a liaison with Gilio that lasted for longer than an hour. She had very simple ideas on love, without much variety. Her light-hearted depravity amused Gilio. And, flirting in the corners, with his foot on hers under her skirt, Gilio told her about CornÉlie, about Duco and about the adventure in the camera degli sposi and asked his cousin whether she understood. No, the Countess di Rosavilla did not understand it any too well either. Temperament? Oh, yes, perhaps she—questa Cornelia—preferred fair men to dark: there were women who had a preference! And Gilio laughed. It was so simple, l’amore; there wasn’t very much to be said about it.

CornÉlie was glad that Gilio had the countess to amuse him. She and Duco interested themselves in Urania’s plans; Duco had long talks with the architect. And he was indignant and advised them not to rebuild so much in that undistinguished restoration manner: it was lacking in style, cost heaps of money and spoilt everything.

Urania was disconcerted, but Duco went on, interrupted the architect, advised him to build up only what was actually falling to pieces, and, so far as possible, to confine himself to underpinning, reinforcing and preserving. And one morning Prince Ercole deigned to walk through the long rooms with Duco, Urania and CornÉlie. There was a great deal to be done, Duco considered, by merely repairing and artistically arranging what at present stood thoughtlessly huddled together.

“The curtains?” asked Urania.

“Let them be,” Duco considered. “At the most, new window-curtains; but the old red Venetian damask; oh, let it be, let it be!”

It was so beautiful; here and there it might be patched, very carefully. He was horrified at Urania’s notion: new curtains! And the old prince was enraptured, because in this way the restoration of San Stefano would cost thousands less and be much more artistic. He regarded his daughter-in-law’s money as his own and preferred it to her. He was enraptured: he took Duco with him to his library, showed him the old missals, the old family books and papers, charters and deeds of gift, showed him his coins and medals. It was all out of order and neglected, first from lack of money and then from slighting indifference; but now Urania wanted to reorganize the family museum with the aid of experts from Rome, Florence and Bologna. The old prince’s interest revived, now that there was money. And the experts came and stayed at the castle and Duco spent whole mornings in their company. He enjoyed every moment of it. He lived in his enchantment of the past, no longer in the days of antiquity, but in the middle ages and the Renascence. The days were too short. And his love for San Stefano became such that one day an archivist took him for the young prince, for Prince Virgilio. At dinner that evening Prince Ercole told the story. And everybody laughed, but Gilio thought the joke beyond price, whereas the archivist, who was there at dinner, did not know how to apologize sufficiently.