On Christmas Eve Regina went early to bed, complaining of an indisposition which made Signora Anna thoughtful, but was not suggestive to Antonio. He knew, or thought he knew, the subtle malady which was consuming his wife. He knew its name: Nostalgia; and he left to time the responsibility of its cure.

Regina was no sooner in bed than she began to remember and to meditate. Christmas in Rome! She saw over again the carts of live fowls being drawn through the streets; the ladies passing quickly along with parcels in their hands; the fat pork-butchers looking out from their nauseating shops with the importance of Roman emperors; his Excellency an Under-Secretary of State standing in front of Dagnino's window with a visage of terrible perplexity.

She reflected upon the quarrel which had broken out among Signora Anna, Gaspare and the maid about wax candles. Marina had gone up and down the stair at least twenty times, each time coming back with parcels, but each time forgetting something. During the whole of lunch and the whole of dinner the brothers, their mother and the girl had discussed the supplies of food.

Well! it had all produced in Regina a sort of spiritual indigestion. Alone in the great bed, shivering, crumpled up, she was conscious of an unspeakable depression. She felt like a little snail which hears the rain pattering on its shell. And she thought continually of the distant hearth, the grey night illumined by the snow. Behind the voices and the laughter which vibrated from the dining-room, behind the painful screech of the trams, behind the buzz of the merry-making city, she heard the whistling of trains in the station. Some of the whistles laughed, some wept; one, faint and tender, seemed the voice of a questioning child; one was like a zigzag on a black sky; one mocked at Regina. "Are you ready to go? Not you! not you! It's your own fault. Here you've come, and here you stay! Good-bye! Good-bye!"

She worked herself into a passion. She was angry even with his Excellency, who had looked in at Dagnino's window, fixing his gold eye-glasses. She asked, exasperated, who were all those strange people laughing and joking in the dining-room?

Antonio soon joined her. She pretended to sleep. He was solicitous and touched her gently. Feeling her very cold, he drew nearer to warm her. She was moved, but did not open her eyes.

The hours passed. The city became silent. It slept, like a greedy child to whom dainties are promised. Regina could not sleep, but she was not insensible to the kindness and the warmth. The little snail had looked out from the window of its shell and seen the sun shining on the grass. Melodious sound of bells trembled and oscillated on the quiet night. One seemed to come from beyond a river, grave, sonorous, nostalgic. To her surprise Regina found herself repeating certain lines of Prati's, which she was not conscious of having known before. Whence did they arise? Perhaps from the depths of her subconsciousness, evoked by the nostalgic song of the bells on that first Christmas of exile.

She repeated the lines many times to herself with sing-song monotony, which ended by putting her asleep. She dreamed she was at home. Her young sister played "StefÁnia" on her mandoline. Regina saw the mandoline distinctly and its inlaid picture of a troubadour with a mandola. The little black cat was listening, rather bored, and yawning ostentatiously. Outside fell the evening, violet-grey, velvety, silent. Suddenly a perplexed visage with gold-rimmed eye-glasses started up behind the window-panes. Regina laughed so loud that she woke her husband.

"Whatever is it?" he asked in alarm.

"His Excellency," she murmured, still dreaming.

Next morning, on awakening, Antonio found Regina in tears.

"You were laughing last night—now you cry," he said, with slight impatience. "Can't you explain what on earth's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! You're crying! What are you crying about? I can't bear it any longer! Why do you torment me like this?"

She took his hand and passed it over her eyes. He repented.

"What is it? What is it? Tell me—only tell me, Regina, Regina!" he urged, tenderly and anxiously.

"It has nothing to do with you," she said, hiding her face on his breast, "it's all my own fault. I don't know why, but I can't conquer the past—the homesickness—and I'm afraid of the future."

He also felt a mysterious fear.

"Why are you afraid of the future?"

"Because—I suppose because we are poor. Rome is so horrid for the poor."

"But, Regina, we aren't poor!" he exclaimed with increasing alarm, "and, anyhow, don't we love each other?"

"To love—to vegetate—it's not enough—not enough," she murmured.

"But you knew all about it, Regina!"

"I knew and I know. I'm furious with myself that I can't overcome my aversion to this bourgeois life."

"But after all—down there at your home—what sort of life were you leading?"

"Oh, Antonio! I had dreams!"

Antonio understood the anguish in that cry, and tried to lull her sorrow for the time being, administering as to a sick person an innocuous soothing mixture.

"Listen," he said, "it's just that you're a bit homesick. You'll find that in a little time you'll get used to it all. I admit our life is rather cramped, but do you suppose the rich people are happy?"

"It's not riches I want!"

"What is it then? I'm not vulgar, am I? or stupid? After all, it's with me you've got to live. Be reasonable. You shall make your own surroundings just as you like them. Meantime, to cure you of your homesickness you can go home to your own country whenever you like."

The soothing mixture produced the desired effect. Regina raised a radiant face.

"In the spring?" she cried impetuously, "in the spring?"

"Whenever you wish. And you'll see that in course of time——"

But the course of time only augmented Regina's trouble.

The night of San Stefano Antonio took her to the Costanzi Theatre, to the Sedie.[3] She put on her smartest frock, her best trinkets, and went to the theatre, resolved to be astonished at nothing, for had she not already been to the theatre at Parma? The Costanzi was magnificent; an enormous casket where the most beautiful pearls in the capital shone on feminine shoulders resplendent with "Crema Venus." Even the pit was splendid, a field of great flowers sprinkled with the dew of gems and gold. And in spite of her experience at the Parma theatre, Regina felt sufficiently bewildered. Her short-sighted eyes, dazzled by the brilliant light, were half shut; and it was much the same with the eyes of her soul. She raised her opera glass and looked at one of the boxes. The lady there was plain in feature, but extremely fashionable; Regina thought her painted, decked with false hair, her eyes artificially darkened. None the less, she envied her.

She looked round. Little by little her envy swelled, overflowed, became hateful. She would have liked the theatre burned down. Then she perceived that a lady near her was looking at the boxes just as she was, perhaps with the same criminal envy in her heart. She felt ashamed of herself, put down the glass, and after this did not look at the seats above her again. But on her own level, in the furthest row of the Poltrone,[4] she saw a long row of smartly dressed men and women who always and only stared at the boxes. No one looked at the Sedie. The people there were an inferior race, or actually non-existent for the ladies and gentlemen in the Poltrone.

"We are nothing! We are the microbes which fill the void," thought Regina.

Then she perceived another strange fact, that she herself felt for the Sedie and the gallery the very same contempt which was felt by the people of the boxes and the stalls.

Antonio thought she was enjoying the music and the spectacle as he was himself; now and then he touched her hand and made some pleasant remark.

"You look a real queen with that necklace!" he said, for instance.

"An exiled queen!" returned Regina under her breath.