For more than half-an-hour Regina remained sitting on the bench. People passed, hurrying homewards. The children had come away from the gardens; even Caterina and her nurse must have left. The scent of grass became oppressive; a hot and enervating breath passed through the air. Like plaintive music, that odour of grass, that voluptuous warmth which undulated in the perfumed air, sharpened Regina's memories and emotions. Thoughts, stinging and ungovernable, rolled in waves through her perturbed mind. Only one recollection was insistent; it disappeared and returned, more definite than the others, burning, portentous. It, and it alone, was a revelation, for the other memories, however she might call them up, try to fix and interrogate them, did not suggest to her that which she desired and feared to know.

How, she asked herself, could Gabrie have penetrated to the secret? The intuition of an observant mind was not enough, nor the keen vision of two sane and cruel eyes. What manifest sign had appeared to Gabrie? Where had she found out the secret? On Madame's impassive face? Antonio's? Marianna's? Or was it a thing already public? Yet Regina had never even suspected it, nor did she remember the smallest revealing sign. True, a few words, a few phrases, now returned to her memory, taking a significance, which, even in her agitation, she thought must be exaggerated. "Anything is possible," Marianna had once said to her with her bad smile. "The blind see more than those with eyes." Who had said that? She did not remember, but she had certainly heard it in the Princess's drawing-room. Even the blind—could they, did they see? Who could tell? She had not seen, perhaps because, in her foolish confidence, she had never looked. Now she remembered the almost physical disgust which Madame Makuline had caused her the very first time they had met. She remembered Arduina's untidy, depressing little drawing-room, the wet sky, the melancholy night; the little old woman dressed in black, sheltering under a doorway, with her meagre basket of unripe lemons. In the shadow, dense as the blackness of pitch, Antonio's face had become suddenly sad, overcast, mysterious. The Princess's pallid, expressionless face, with its thick, colourless lips, appeared in that depth of shade like a dismal moon floating among the clouds of dream. Who could guess how long the evil woman, the outworn body of a dead star, had been attracting into her fatal orbit, her turbid atmosphere, the winged bird, instinct with life and love, which was unconsciously fluttering round her?

Unconsciously? No. Antonio had become sombre that evening when he saw the woman. As yet she disgusted him. But an abominable day had come later. His wife had left him, reproaching him for his poverty; and he, blind, humiliated, and defeated, had sold himself!

And the most insistent of Regina's recollections, the one which came as a revelation of the accomplished fact, was just that arrival of Antonio at Casalmaggiore, that drive along the river-bank, that strange impression she had received at sight of her husband. Now all was clear. This was why he was changed; this was why his kisses had seemed despairing, almost cruel. He had returned to her contaminated, shuddering with anguish. He had kissed her like that for love and for revenge, that he might make her share in the infamy to which she had driven him, that he might forget that infamy, that he might purify himself in her purity, and gain his own forgiveness.

Afterwards—well, afterwards he had got used to it. One gets used to everything. She herself had got used——Would she get used to this?

A whip would have stung her less than this idea. She leaped to her feet, hurried down the Viale, and entered the garden. It was deserted; already somnolent, scarcely shadowed by the delicate veil of the renascent trees. The nurse had gone.

Automatically Regina went out by the other gate, and paused under the ilices, all sprinkled with the pale gold of their new leaves. It was nearly noon. Was she to go back home? Was not this the just moment, the just occasion for serious flight? She would not re-enter the contaminated house! She would call Antonio to another place and say to him: "Since the fault belongs to us both, let us pardon each other; but in any case let us begin our life over again." Folly! Stuff of romance! In real life such things cannot happen, or do not happen at the just moment. Regina had once childishly run away, leaving her nest merely because it was narrow. Her flight had been a ridiculous caprice, and for that reason she had succeeded in carrying it out. Now, on the other hand, now that her dignity and her honour bade her remove her foot from the house which was soiled by the basest shame, now it was impossible for her to repeat that action!

She hastens her step; her silk flounces rustle. She feels a slight irritation in hearing that sighing of silk which surrounds and follows her. Her thoughts, however, are clearing themselves. As she descends Via Viminale, she seems returning to perfect calm. She must wait, observe, investigate. The world is malicious. People live on calumny, or at least on evil speaking. A man is not to be condemned because a silly school-girl has written down in her note-book a prurient malignity.

It is abject nonsense!

And yet——

The biggest tree has grown from a tiny seed——

Though she seems to have recovered her calm, Regina now and then stops as if overcome by physical pain. She cannot go on; something is pulling her back. But presently the fascination, the attraction of home draws her on, forces her to hasten. She walks on and on almost instinctively, like the horse who feels the place where rest and fodder are awaiting him.

At the corner where Via Viminale is crossed by Via Principe Amedeo, she stops as usual to look at the hats in the milliner's window. She wants a mid-season hat. There is the very one! Of silvery-green straw, trimmed with delicate pale thistles—a perfect poem of spring! But a dark shadow falls over her eyes the moment she perceives she has stopped. For hats, for silk petticoats, for all such miserable things, splendid and putrescent like the slough of a serpent, for these things he——

But the thought interrupts itself. No! no! Not a word of it is true! One should have proof before uttering such calumnies! Walk on Regina! Hurry! It is noon. He must have come back. Luncheon is ready!

And if none of it is true? Will he not notice her agitation? Can she possibly hide it? And if none of it is true? He will suffer. Again she will make him suffer for no reason. Here she is, pitying him! Guilty or not, he is worthy of pity. Instinctively she pities him, because the guilt has come home to herself.

Via Torino, Via Balbo, crooked, deserted, flecked with shadows from the trees in a little bird-haunted garden; a picture of distant houses against the blue, blue background; a rosy-grey cloud, fragment of mother-o'-pearl, sailing across the height of heaven—how sweet is all that! Regina descends the street swiftly, goes swiftly up the stair, her heart beats, her skirts rustle; but she no longer cares. Antonio has not come in. Baby is asleep. Regina goes to her bedroom, all blue, large and fresh in the penumbra of the closed shutters. She is hot, and as she undresses her heart beats strongly, but no longer with grief. At last she has awaked from a bad dream! or she has been suffering some acute bodily pain, which is now over.

There is Antonio's step upon the stair! She hears it as usual with joy. Now the familiar sound of his latch-key! Now the occult breath of life and joy which animates the whole house when he enters it!

"You've come in? What a lovely day! And Caterina?"

"She's asleep."

He takes off his hat and light overcoat, and flings them on the bed. Regina lifts her skirts from the floor, and is hanging them up, when she feels Antonio pass quite close and touch her with that breath of life, of youth and beauty, which he always sheds around him.

"Good God! I have had a hideous dream!" she thinks, bathing her burning face before joining him at the repast.

Antonio went out the moment he had finished lunch. He said he had an appointment at the Exchange. And the moment he had gone Regina went to the window, goaded by an obscure doubt, by a blind and unreasoning instinct. She saw her husband walking with his active step towards Via Depretis. Then she started back sharply, struck not by the absurdity of her doubt, but by the doubt itself.

No; at this hour he would not be going to that other. Besides, if he were he would have said so.

But now doubt was running riot in Regina's blood, and she felt her soul crushed by a dark oppression, a thousand times more painful, because more intelligent, than the oppression which she had felt up to an hour ago.

She repented that she had not detained Antonio and told him all.

"But what would have been the good?" she reflected at once. "He would lie. Of course, he wouldn't admit it to me! Oh, God! what must I do? What must I do?"

She sat down on the little arm-chair at the foot of her bed, and tried to think, to calculate coldly.

The cause of her doubt was certainly puerile—the guess of a heartless child. But truth sometimes finds amusement in revealing herself just in that way—by means of a heartless jest. The occult law which guides human destiny has strange and incomprehensible ordinances. At that moment Regina felt no wish to philosophise, but in her own despite she turned over certain questions. Why was all this happening which was happening? Why had she one day rebelled against her good destiny and let herself be carried away by a caprice? And why had this caprice, this feminine lightness, into which she had drifted almost unconsciously, brought about a tragedy? "Because we must have suffering," she answered herself. "Because sorrow is the normal state of man. But I am not resigned to suffering. I wish to rebel. Above all, I wish to overcome this suspicion which is poisoning me. I wish to know the truth. And when I know it—what shall I do?"

She reasoned, and was conscious of reasoning. This comforted her somewhat, or at least made her hope she would not commit further follies. But at moments she asked herself, was not the very suspicion itself a folly?

"We were, we are, so happy! But I'm always obliged to torment myself. I imagine I am reasoning, while to have the doubt at all is imbecility!"

But was she not saying this to convince herself there was no truth in it all, while she felt, she felt, that it was entirely true? She was afraid of losing her happiness, that's what it was! She wanted to keep her happiness at all costs, even at the cost of a vile selling of her conscience.

Ah! this thought robbed her of her reason! In that case she would be like the most abject of all the women who had ever been in her circumstances! She reasoned no further.

A nervous tremor shook her. Her arm contracted, forcing her to shut her fists.

"Anything! Anything! Misery, grief, scandal! Anything, even the abandonment of Antonio—but not infamy!"

She flung her arms over the bed, hid her face, bit, gnawed the coverlet, and wept.

She wept and she remembered. Once before she had flung herself on her bed and had wept with rage and grief. But Antonio had come, and she had kissed him with treason in her heart. It was she who had made infamous this weak and loving man, the conquest, the prey, of her superior force.

He had degraded himself for her, and now she was lowering him still more, suspecting that he would hesitate a single moment if she were to say to him, "I don't want all this you are giving me! Let us rise up out of the mud; let us re-make our life."

"If he lies, it will be for me, because he will not wish to destroy me. Oh! he is a rotten fruit! But I—I am the worm which is consuming him!"

But if, after all, she were deceiving herself? If it were not true? At moments this ray of joy flashed across her mind; then all the former darkness returned.

To know! to know! that was the first thing! Why cause him useless distress? The first thing was to make certain, and then——she would see!

The tears did her good. They were like a summer shower, clearing and refreshing her mind. She got up, washed her eyes, sat down to read the newspaper. She had to do something. But the first words which struck her and claimed her attention were these—

"Arrest of a foreign priest."

She read no further, for the words reminded her of something distant and oppressive, a matter now forgotten, which yet in some way belonged to the drama evolving in her mind.

What was it? When? How?

Here it was. The dream she had had, that night in her old home, after her running away.

Shutting her eyes, she again saw Marianna's little figure running at her side along the foggy river-bank, while she told how Antonio had borrowed money from Madame "to set up a fine Apartment."

Profound anguish, rage and shame goaded Regina, forced her to sob, to run, to try and escape somehow from Marianna; but Marianna still ran along by her side, telling of her encounter with the fireman.

"He had become a priest; but coquettish——"

She laughed, not thinking of the priest, thinking of some mysterious, fearful thing.

Regina opened her eyes, passed her hands over her face, still tear-stained, and she felt her mind grow yet darker. At that moment the memory of her dream had for her a solemn signification. From the depths of the unconscious rose up clearly the anguished impression of that distant hour. What had happened then? Under the influence of what pathological phenomenon, presentiment, or suggestion, had she fallen? Perhaps the very hour of her dream had been the hour of the abominable deed.

She remembered to have read instances of that sort of thing—telepathy—clairvoyance——

Doubtless Antonio had thought of her while he was making love to the rich old woman; his disgust, shame, rancour, had been so violent as to project themselves to her, across space, in the very depths of her subconsciousness. Out of that same depth now rose the memory; and the inductions which accompanied it were some sort of comfort to Regina.

But what miserable comfort! Suppose he had sold himself with disgust, shame, rancour? Still he had sold himself. Suppose it had been for love of herself? Still he had sold himself; he had been capable of that! Regina pitied him, because she saw the pitiable side. But she felt that henceforth in her heart there was room for no other kindly sentiment.

All was ruined; and among the grey vestiges trembled only the yellow flowers of pity—too frail to survive among ruins.

But if not a word of it was true? In dark hours the strongest soul becomes the prey of superstition. The dream had been only a dream. In any case, it had knitted itself strangely to reality by the 10,000 lire, the beautiful Apartment, Marianna's laugh.

Marianna! Ah! She at any rate would know! For a space Regina thought of summoning her.

"I will make her speak—by violence if necessary! I will send the nurse and the maid out of the house! I'm stronger than Marianna!"

She closed her fist and looked at it to assure herself of her strength.

"If she won't speak, I'll crush her. I'll cry: 'Oh, you who always speak the truth, speak it now!'"

Already she heard her voice, echoing through the warm silence of her drawing-room.

What would Marianna reply? She would probably laugh.

And suppose none of it were true?

Pride pierced Regina's soul and destroyed the half-formed, indecorous, senseless project.

"Neither Marianna nor any one. I will find out myself."

But after a few moments the turmoil in her thoughts recommenced, and she formed other romantic and irrational projects.

She would follow Antonio.

Some fine night he would go out, and, after strolling hither and thither for an hour, he would open the iron gate leading to Madame's garden, the gate of which Massimo had said, "Here is the entrance for her lovers."

Antonio would go in. Regina would wait outside in the deserted street, in the shadow of the corner. Some one would pass and look at her with brutal eyes, imagining her a night wanderer; but she would take no offence. Why should she take offence? Was she not lower than the lowest of night wanderers? Were not her very clothes woven of shame?

Hours of silent torture would pass.

Antonio was in there, in the oppressive heat of that house decked with furs—voluptuous, feline, like the lair of a tigress. It was all so horrible that, even in her insensate dream, Regina could not think of it. Only she saw the Princess dressed in black velvet, her thick neck roped with pearls, her hands small and sparkling. And the small, sparkling hands were caressing Antonio's beautiful head. And he was silent; he had got used to these caresses.

This idea sufficed to produce in Regina an explosion of grief, which quickly brought on reaction. She awoke from her delirium; thought she saw all the folly of her doubt. None of it was true; none! Such things only happened in novels. It was impossible that Antonio should penetrate furtively into the old woman's house; impossible that his wife should wait outside in the shadow of the corner, to make him a comedy-scene when he came out. Ridiculous!

So the slow day wore on in what seemed physical anguish, more or less acute according to moments, which often completely disappeared, but left the memory of pain and the dread of its return.

Outside the feast of the sun continued, of the blue sky, of happy birds. Now and then a passing carriage broke the silence of the street with a torrent of noise. Then all was quiet again, save that in the distance the continuous rumble of the city ebbed and flowed like the swelling of the sea in an immense shell.

About two Caterina woke up and began to cry. Regina heard this tearless, causeless weeping, and went to the nursery. It was papered with white, and, against this shining background, the bronzed and heavy figure of the nurse with the baby, naked and pink in her hands, woke a new feeling in Regina. She seemed looking at a picture which signified something. But now everything had acquired for her a signification of reproach. That figure of a peasant mother, dark, rough, sweet, like a primitive Madonna, reminded her of what she ought to have been herself. She didn't even know how to be a mother like the meanest of peasants! She was nothing. A parasite—nothing but a parasite!

The nurse was dressing the child and talking to her in a "little language." "PecchÈ quetto pianto? (What's all this crying about?) What's the matter? Is little madam cold? Well, we'll put on her lovely little shift, and then her lovely little socks, and then her lovely little shoosies. Look! Look! What lovely little shoosies! Go in, little foot! What? little foot won't go in? Oho, Mr. Foot, that's all very fine, but in you go!"

Caterina, in her chemise, rosy and fat, with her hair ruffled, cried still; but she looked with interest at her white shoes and stuck out her foot.

"There's one gone in! Now the other. Let's see if this Mr. Foot is as naughty as the other Mr. Foot. Up with him! No, this is good Mr. Foot, and we'll give him a big kiss. Up!"

Caterina laughed. Her eyes, with their bluish whites, her whole face, her whole little figure, seemed illuminated. Regina took her in her arms, danced her up and down, pressed her to her heart, made her play, played and laughed with her. "My little, little one! My scagarottina."[7]

"Bah!" said the nurse, very cross. "What's the sense of calling her that? Give her to me. She's cold."

"You had better take her to the Pincio," said Regina, returning the babe to her arms; but Caterina held tight on to her mother, and frowned at the nurse.

"It's too windy on the Pincio," said the peasant, still crosser. "And so, Miss Baby, you don't love me any more, don't you?"

But Regina did not mind the nurse's jealousy. She had so often herself been jealous of the nurse!

When the woman and the baby were gone, Regina wandered a little hither and thither through the silent Apartment. What could she do with herself? What could she do? She did not know what to do. She ought to have gone to visit a lady she had met at Madame Makuline's; but the bare idea of dressing herself to go to a drawing-room, where a pack of women would be sitting in a circle, discussing gravely and at length the alarming shape of the sleeves in the latest fashion-book, filled her with melancholy.

What was she to do? What was she to do? Boredom, or at least a feeling which she told herself was boredom, began to oppress her. She could not remember what, up till yesterday, she had been in the habit of doing to exorcise boredom. But she did remember how in the first year of her marriage she used to get bored just like this.

Well, how had she got through that period? What grateful occupation had made her forget the passing of life?

None; she had just been happy.

"What? Am I unhappy now? All because of a piece of nonsense?" she asked herself, sitting down by the window of her bedroom and taking up a little petticoat she was sewing for Baby. "But at that time, too, I was making myself miserable about nothing."

She stitched for five or six minutes. The silence of the room, the quiet, rather melancholy afternoon light, that same distant rumbling of the great shell, which reached her through the warm air, gave her something of the vague and soothing sweetness of dream. The trouble seemed laid.

More minutes passed.

But suddenly the door-bell sounded, and she sprang to her feet, shaken by the electric vibration which infected her nerves.

"Not at home!" she said, running to the maid, who was on her way to open.

Regina returned to her room and shut the door. She didn't even want to know who was seeking her. At that moment, on that day, she hated and despised the whole human kind.

But when the maid told her through the door that the visitor was Signorina Gabrie, Regina rushed to the window and called to the girl, who was just issuing from the house. Gabrie came back. Regina at once repented that she had recalled her. She saw she had been moved to do so by an impulse of despairing curiosity. The student, finding her note-books in disorder, probably suspected Regina had read them; now she had perhaps come in alarm to make excuses for the horrors she had written. A few questions would be enough——

But Regina quickly recovered her proud dignity. No, never! Neither of Gabrie nor of any one would she ask that which it concerned her to know.

Gabrie came in, colourless in her loose black jacket. She was not well; she coughed. Her eyes, however, had kept their cruel brilliance, sharp and shining like needles.

Regina felt afraid of this terrible girl. The future authoress seemed already mistress of a power of divination superior to every other human faculty. She would read her friend's thoughts through her forehead! But the fear only lasted a moment. Gabrie was nothing! Just a little tattler—despicable!

"I was dressing to go out; that's why I said 'Not at home.' Are you cured? I went to see you this morning."

"I know, thanks. Yes, I am better. Go on dressing. I won't sit down. How's Caterina?"

"She's gone out," said Regina, smoothing her hair at the wardrobe mirror.

"Go on dressing," repeated Gabrie. "I'm sorry to be delaying you."

Regina began to dress. She did not know where she was going, but she would certainly go out just to get rid of Gabrie.

"Shall I help?" asked the girl.

"Yes, please. Hook the collar. Oh, these collars! What a torment they are! One wants a maid just for these precious collars!"

"Haven't you got one?" said Gabrie, dryly, fastening the collar.

"That girl? She's a mere scrub."

"Patience! Hold still a moment! How on earth can you wear such a collar? Well, really, women are the victims of fashion!"

Regina felt Gabrie's slim, cold fingers on her neck. The gold-embroidered collar, which reached to her very ears, choked her. She turned round, flushed and angry. Was she angry with Gabrie or with the collar? She did not know, but she flew out at Gabrie.

"Women! Aren't you a woman yourself, pray? Be so kind as to drop that tone. I can't endure it!"

"I know you can't," said the other meekly. "But is that my fault?"

Regina looked at her while she held her breath, fastening the overtight bodice. What did Gabrie mean? Had her words some occult signification?

"How old are you?"

"Why do you ask? I'm twenty. Why?"

"Really?"

"Really. Why should I hide it? As I shan't find a husband——"

"Don't be pathetic. I can't stand that, either."

"I know you can't. Is it my fault?"

"When's your first novel coming out?"

"Sooner than you think," said Gabrie, brightening, but coughing violently.

"Will you put me into it?" said Regina, powdering herself spitefully. The white powder clouded even the looking-glass, and Regina thought—

"Gabrie must find me changed, and she'll be guessing the reason."

She knew she was cross, and felt vexed that she could not command herself. But Gabrie coughed on and made no reply. They went out together.

"Where are you going?" asked Regina.

"Home to my studies."

"Come with me. There'll be matter for an authoress's study. Imagine a room, with ten ladies, all mortal enemies, because each one is afraid she isn't so well dressed as the others!"

"In my books, if ever I write any, there'll be nothing so banal. It's useless for you to take me 'in giro.'"[8]

They both laughed at the pun, but Regina felt that the laugh rang false. She could not make out whether Gabrie suspected her of reading the note-book.

"Good-bye," they said, without shaking hands. The girl went off towards Via Torino and Regina turned in the direction of Via Depretis, holding her smart dress very high. In the silence of the deserted pavement her silk petticoat rustled like the dead leaves of autumn. She was thinking of Gabrie, who had flown to her garret like a bee to its hive, and who had an object in this stupid life. She walked on, but did not know whither she was going.

She went a long way, aimlessly; down and up Via Nazionale; then, scarcely noticing it, she found herself in Via Sistina, going towards the Pincio. Her troubled thoughts followed her like the rustle of her skirts.

On the Pincio she found the nurse with Caterina, and they sat together on one of the terrace benches. There was no music, but the fine day had attracted a crowd of foreigners and carriages. From the bench (while the baby bent from the arms of the stooping nurse, picked up stones, examined them gravely, then still more gravely offered them to another baby,) Regina watched the circling carriages. Slowly she passed under something of a spell as she gazed at the too luminous, too tranquil, too beautiful picture—the pearly sky, the flowery trees among the green trees, the charmingly attired idle figures, the faces like paintings upon china.

As in the background of a stage picture, the beautiful shining horses, the carriages full of fair women, passed and re-passed in a kind of rhythmical course, which fascinated with a sleepy fascination like that of running water.

Once Regina's envy of those fine ladies in their carriages had swollen even to sinful hatred. Now, from the depths of the stupor which overwhelmed her, she felt sorry for them, for the tedium of their existence, their uselessness, their rhythmical course—always the same, always equal, as on the park roads, so also in their lives.

"Let us go. It's turning cold," said the nurse.

Regina started. The sun had gone down, clear in a clear sky, scarce tinted by faint green and rose; an ashen light, gently sad-coloured, fell over the picture. Regina rose docilely and followed the big woman whose bronze countenance was framed by the aureole of a wet-nurse's head-dress.

They walked and walked. Caterina slept on the nurse's powerful shoulder, and the ashy-rose twilight threw its haze over Via Sistina. The portly nurse swayed as she moved like a laden bark. Regina, slender and rustling as a young poplar, followed automatically as if towed by the big woman. When the latter stopped—and she stopped before all the shop windows which showed necklaces and rings—Regina also stopped, her looks veiled and vague.

The long torment of excitement had been succeeded by indefinable torpor. She was walking in a dream. Years and years must have rolled by since she had passed along Via San Lorenzo following the bird-seller. Of all her emotions, now only a vague sadness remained. She seemed no longer in doubt, but finally convinced of the monstrous folly of her suspicion. Only she was unable to recover her accustomed serenity.

Three lame musicians, standing before a gloomy house, sobbed out of their old instruments a lament of supreme melancholy. The pavement was crowded with elderly foreign ladies in hats of impossible ugliness. From every cross-street sounded the warnings of motors. Regina, being short-sighted, was always afraid of the motors, especially in the twilight, when the last light of day was confused in perilous dazzle with the uncertain brightness of the lamps. To-night she was more nervous than usual. She felt as if monsters were rampant through the city, howling to announce their passage. Some fine day one of these monsters would overwhelm her and the baby and the portly nurse, grinding them like grains of barley.

In Piazza Barberini, an old gentleman, stooping slightly, and wearing an overcoat of forgotten fashion buttoned up tightly though the evening was almost hot, passed close to Regina. She recognised the Senator, Arduina's relation, and turned to speak to him; but his ironical though kindly eyes were looking straight before him, and he saw no one.

She had met him several times—once he had even come to visit her—and each time he had talked about England and the English laws, and the English women, repeating the refrain of his old song—"Work, work, work! That is the secret of a good life."

Regina had ended by finding him tiresome, like any other old monomaniac. One could get along very well, even without work; of course one could! But to-night she watched the small, bent figure tripping along, melting into the misty distance of the street, and she thought it even more ridiculous than usual. Nevertheless, it seemed to her that this little gnome-like figure had appeared, as in a fable, to point the moral of her unhappy history.

Ah, well!—to talk like the Master—all life, if one considered it, was an unhappy history. Was it not a most discomfortable sign of the times that a girl of twenty, who had left the green river-banks of her birth-place for the first time, should deliberately set down in her note-book the most hideous things of life, which, moreover, were only calumny?

Antonio came home about seven. As on an evening long ago, the laid table awaited him, and the passage was fragrant with the smell of fried artichokes. Regina, not long returned from her walk, was making out the housekeeping list for the morrow.

Caterina was awake, and Antonio took her at once on his arm and sat down by the window. The lamp-light always excited Caterina and made her even merrier than usual.

"Like the kittens," said the nurse.

The baby, who appeared to cherish a great admiration for her father, sat staring at him for a long time, then gravely showed him one little foot with its sock on and a new shoe.

Antonio understood her.

"Aha! A coquette already! We've got some beautiful shoes, and we want them admired, eh?" he said, nodding his head and taking the little foot in his hand.

But Caterina's face darkened. She frowned horribly, and made a great effort to liberate her foot. She succeeded, but the shoe came off and fell on the floor. Then the young father stooped and, not without difficulty, put the little, hot, pulsing foot back in the shoe, addressing the baby in phrases which, according to Balzac, are ridiculous to read, but in the mouth of a father are sublime.

Caterina replied in her own fashion.

The mother drew nearer, but Antonio and the baby continued their interesting conversation. The young man's eyes were clear and joyous, and once again Regina convinced herself that she had dreamed a hideous dream.

And day after day followed, almost exactly similar to this one.