An unusually hot April was burning up the city. Towards evening the heavens flamed like incandescent metal. The scent of summer, of dust, of withered grass, made the air almost suffocating.

One evening Regina was visiting the Princess, who two days later was going to Albano.

"Shall you be there long?" asked the pink-china-headed old gentleman, in French, making a great effort to speak.

But, as he did not speak at all loud, Madame's big, yellow face revolved slowly till her good ear was turned in the old gentleman's direction.

"Beg pardon?"

"Will you stay long at Albano?"

"Three weeks."

"Where will you go afterwards?" continued the other, with a seriousness almost tragic.

"To Viareggio, Monsieur. And you?"

"I don't know yet. I am still undecided. Perhaps to Vichy. You will remain in Italy?"

"Probably this year. I am not over well, and I don't wish to do anything fatiguing. How dreadfully hot it is already! One can't sleep. I ought to have got out the hair mattresses."

Madame sighed. Monsieur sighed louder. They both seemed extremely unhappy, she on account of the heat, he because he didn't know what to do with himself for the summer.

"I'm sure there's going to be an earthquake," said Marianna, by way of comfort, as she brought them their tea.

The old gentleman, who for some time had been casting tender looks at Marianna, fixed his little blue eyes on her and said—

"How many cups, Mademoiselle, have you distributed in your life? When I see you without one in your hand your little figure seems to me incomplete."

But Mademoiselle was out of humour, and would neither talk nonsense nor listen to it. Even she was oppressed by the heat. Passing near Regina, she said, in a stage whisper—

"For every cup of tea I have handed he has lost a lock of his hair!"

But Regina also was cross, and did not listen.

The heat made everybody cross and stupid. Regina, moreover, felt at the end of her forces; her pride and her dignity were bending like leaves scorched by the sun. She was anxiously expecting to be joined by Antonio. Perhaps to-day she would really be given a sign; what sort of sign she did not know, but she waited. She waited; ashamed of being in this house, of facing that old woman, who was as impassive as a deaf sphinx; yet ashamed also of being ashamed.

While she waited her memory was busy. The very smallest sign would be sufficient now she had gone over the past, and called up with clearness and intensity each act, each word, which might have an equivocal signification. To-day the bitter-sweet perfume of lilac which pervaded the room reminded her of another occasion two years ago; of words, bitter as the perfume, spoken by herself, and of Marianna's terrible reply.

"To be poor in Rome is to be like a beggar gnawing a bone at the shut door of a palace."

"Just so; and presently the rich man's dog comes by and snatches from the beggar's hand even the bone!"

Ah! Mademoiselle knew the world! While Regina was recalling the distressed and ironical look which the Princess had given her that day, just before her flight, Marianna brought her some tea and began to tell the misdeeds of a very elegant gentleman who frequented Madame's receptions.

"They say he has really lived on the creatures," she said, "and when they can't do any more for him, he flings them away like sucked lemons."

"So much the worse for them," said Regina. "After all, he's the strongest and——"

"Ah! I forgot you were a super-woman!" said Marianna, in a low voice. Then she laughed. "Will you have some more tea?"

Swift and terrible as the thunderbolt came the thought to Regina—

"Marianna knows the secret, and believes that I know it, too, and consent!"

A flame burned her face. Never did she forget the shame which this flush caused her. It lasted a moment. Then she looked contemptuously at Marianna, and remembered that the girl might have spoken without intention; merely one of her usual insolent follies. Still, all her pulses had been set throbbing.

"At all costs I must get rid of this incubus," she thought, not for the first, the second, the hundredth time. To-day she felt that her trouble, real or imaginary, had come to the crisis, and must be resolved, either by deliverance or by death.

The old ladies and gentlemen were all gathered round their hostess, who, whitewashed and wan, seemed in that sparkling circle like a decaying pearl in a broken setting. They were talking of the suicide of a Russian personage, a MÆcenas known to all Europe.

One of the speakers, himself a Russian, told of a dinner he had attended a few days before in Paris, given by artists and noblemen to the rich suicide, and of all the intrigues and evil diplomacy connected with that symposium, and the bonds, more or less shameful, by which its guests were united among themselves.

Regina listened and remembered that she had listened to similar conversations a hundred times. What struck her was the simplicity with which the Russian talked, and the eagerness with which the others listened. No one was abashed; some even gave signs of approbation, and seemed delighted at hearing a scandal, which, for the most part, they already knew. It was the way of the world! And was she to be surprised if one of these wrongs, which, it appeared, were habitual with all the men and women of this earth, had come home to herself? For a moment she asked, was she not a fool to be so disturbed? Then the question horrified her.

She felt herself stifled. The heat of the room, here and there still decked with furs, gave her really a feeling of oppression and suffocation. Surely the feline creatures were becoming alive! Their skins were filling out; they were moving, approaching her! puffing hot breath in her face, musky and voluptuous scent! They fascinated her with their glassy eyes, raised their padded paws, slowly, softly; hugged her, smothered her! Air! air! To free herself, or else to die! Another moment, and she, Regina—erring, perhaps, but not impure, who, on the banks of her native river, had dreamed of all in life which is worthy to support life—another moment, and she would die of asphyxia!

Instinctively she got up and made her way to the marble terrace, whence a stair led to the garden. A man was working at a round plot like a tart, edged with velvet grass and patterned with bedding plants. Everything was soft and artificial in the little green and flowery garden, strewn with wistaria petals. The sunset light flushed the garland of white roses which hung from the laurel above the little gate. At this hour the little gate was shut.

The hot, over-scented air of the garden had not yet brought Regina any relief, when she saw the gate open and admit her husband. A sanguinous veil clouded her eyes. For a moment she could not see the figure advancing towards her. Antonio mounted the stair quite quietly, stopped at her side, and asked—

"What are you doing here?"

He was smart as usual, but not in visiting costume.

"Why are you dressed like this?" said Regina, touching his sleeve. "There is such a crowd of people, and it's so hot. Don't go in! They haven't seen you, and I am just going!"

"Wait one moment," he returned, tranquilly. "Why are you going?"

"At least don't enter this way, Antonio!" she cried, excitedly.

"But why not?" he repeated, opening the glass door.

Regina remained on the terrace, looking at the gardener without seeing him. Her suspicion was monstrous folly! A guilty man would not act as at this moment Antonio had acted. Yet no! Immediately she reflected that if he were guilty he would naturally behave just as he had behaved—pretending not to understand, even if he did understand, what was passing in her soul. But no! Again, no! If he were guilty he would have pretended better. He would not have come in familiarly by the garden gate. He would not have allowed himself the liberty, knowing his wife here, in the other woman's house. Yet she was aware that the most astute delinquents pretend sometimes to forget, and commit imprudences just in order to mislead suspicion.

But what startled her at the moment was the perception that now she held Antonio not only guilty, but aware of her suspicion, and resolved to continue the deception.

She went back into the drawing-room, where the discussion of the foreigner's suicide was still going on. It seemed to her tiresome, provincial gossip.

Marianna gave Antonio tea, and while he nibbled a yellow biscuit with teeth even as a child's, he also gave his opinion of the tragedy. Madame bent forward to listen, and fanned herself with a little Japanese fan, which seemed made of polished glass. The rings on her tiny hands sparkled in the light, which grew ever fainter and rosier.

Nothing occurred. There was still no sign, no revelation of the secret. Antonio did not take much notice of Madame, and she, more drooping and impassive than usual, turned her good ear to every one who spoke, now and then replying politely. But in her metallic eyes shone the vague and languid splendour of thoughts far away in matters of her own.

After a while Regina rose. Antonio followed her. They took leave and went away. Marianna ran after them to the ante-room, and kissed Regina on both cheeks.

"Me also?" said Antonio, offering his cheek.

"You to-morrow," she replied, carrying on the jest. Then she said, seriously, "Come about seven, as we've got to go out first. Ah!" she continued, following them to the door, "that man has been back. He offers 300 lire or a new fur. But Madame is firm in demanding her own; she says he'll have to be summoned."

"Well, we'll have him summoned," said Antonio. "But was the old fur a good one?"

"Why, it cost 900 lire!"

"We'll see about it. Au revoir!"

"Good-bye. Are you coming to Albano, Regina?"

"If Madame invites us," said Antonio, and they went out.

Regina has said neither yes nor no. They walked as far as Piazza dell' Indipendenza in silence. Then Regina raised her head and asked—

"What was that about a fur?"

"Oh, good Lord! don't speak of it! For a whole month I've heard of nothing else. She sent a skin to the furrier to be repaired, and it seems to have got changed or something——"

"Are you going to Albano?"

"If she invites us—some Sunday."

"I'm not going," said Regina, stoutly.

"Why not?"

"Because—it's too hot," she said, dropping her voice.

"It won't be hot there. She has taken a villa on the edge of the lake. Such roses on the terrace! When they drop they fall straight into the water."

Regina knew all about it, for he had chosen the villa himself, and had described it to his wife a few days ago. They walked on without speaking further. The street lamps burned yellow and dismal in the rosy twilight, and their dull flame increased Regina's melancholy. Her foolish project of spying upon Antonio in the night recurred to her. She saw herself a flitting shadow under that yellow and dismal light, shadowed herself by some night prowler in search of adventure. But suddenly she raised her head proudly, saying to herself—

"No, never again! This is the last time I shall go to that house; and neither shall he go there again. It is time to bring it all to an end!"

When she had reached her room, she took off her silk jacket and flung it on the bed.

"Well! it is hot! What a summer we are going to have! Oh, how horrid Rome is in the summer! And they are already going away. Quite right, the poor delicate things! But we—yes, gnawing our bones—if they're left to us——"

"What's that you're muttering?" asked Antonio, but went on, without waiting for an answer, "Hasn't Caterina come in yet?"

Regina undressed, flinging down her things and inveighing against the rich, great people, who abandon Rome at its first heat.

Antonio stood looking out of the window. An angry thought flashed through her mind, the worst of the perverse thoughts which had destroyed her peace.

"He's no longer displeased when I am cross. He's afraid of provoking me to a burst of rage. He guesses that I know, and believes that I'll bear it—up to a certain point."

"Shut the window!" she said, irritated.

He shut the window, patiently.

"I'm going for the Avanti,"[9] he said, moving away; "make haste! it's half-past seven."

Left alone, Regina experienced a sort of crisis, as on the evening two years ago when she had been to the Grand Hotel.

"Ah!" she thought, putting on her home evening dress; "The moment he comes in I'll say to him, 'It's time to end this business! I am moving away—in reality this time! I don't wish you to visit her at Albano. I don't wish you ever again to go to her house. I will never go to it myself. End it, Antonio! End it! end it! Don't you see I am gnawing my heart out? Or is it that you do see and don't care? Why don't you care? At least tell me why! Why do you act like this? I don't know how to bear all these superfluities, these silk petticoats, chiffons, which you have bought me with that money. There! I fling them all from me—all! all! A garret is enough for me, a sack to dress myself in, black bread—but honour, Antonio, honour, honour!' Ah, they rob us even of our honour, even of that one gnawed bone! But you'll have to reckon with me, Madame! old viscous moon, blind and asthmatic personification of nocturnal vampires! Wrapped in your furs, isn't it enough that you've had an easy life, a soft life, which has corrupted you, body and soul, but you want pleasure also in your old age? You and your old, rich friends, taking advantage of the poor, of the poor and the young, who have been made tender by tears, by weariness and grief, just as you have been made soft by idleness and satiety!"

"All this rhetoric is very fine," she thought, presently, putting her clothes in order, "but the world belongs to the strong, and I—I am one of the weak. I am weak because I reason too much, while those people don't reason at all; they only enjoy. That deaf old witch has never thought. She has stolen my Antonio, and I—I have been torturing myself for a whole month thinking whether it is delicate to say to my husband, 'End it! End it!' But I will speak to-night! And he will retort, saying it was all done for me—to give me those things I demanded; and then—then what will happen? No; he won't reproach me at all! He isn't capable of it. We shall forgive each other. And then—what will happen? Is it true we can begin a new life? Yes; even a ruined house can be rebuilt. But it isn't the same house, and one can't live in it without constantly thinking of the horror of the ruin."

Antonio delayed in returning. The nurse also delayed. She was out of temper at present and inclined to take liberties, because she was soon to be dismissed. It was almost night. Regina gazed from the window, vaguely anxious about her child. Twilight still lingered in the lonely street, grass-grown like the streets of a deserted city. The gardens were odoriferous with roses. A few stars twinkled on the still blood-stained veil of the heavens.

And, notwithstanding her proud resolve, Regina was overcome with grief at the thought of abandoning that poetic street, every blade of whose grass had known the illusion of her happiness.

But she kept silence on this evening also. How could she help it? Caterina would not go to bed; she wanted to stay with her papa, whose golden moustache, beautiful eyes, beautiful scented hair, she admired prodigiously. Did Caterina see that her papa was beautiful? That cannot be known. But certainly she looked at his attractive countenance with great pleasure, and seemed to find special delight in touching the shaven face of Il Papaino with her little peach-blossom cheek. Antonio sang his favourite rhyme—

Each time he repeated those lines Regina remembered, as in a troubled dream, the evening of her arrival in Rome. But to-night Caterina laughed and screamed with mad delight, and admired her papa more than ever; and then they talked together of so many things, of such secret things, comprehensible only to themselves! What could Regina do? Deprive Antonio, who had been working all day, of the pleasure of talking to his baby, wrest the little one from him, and send her away? She was not so cruel. When at last Caterina's big eyes became languid with sleep, and all her little body relaxed and sank, heavy and sweet like a ripe fruit, Antonio said—

"Now I am going out for a little."

What could Regina do? Say to him—

"No; stay. I wish to tell you the horrible things I am thinking of you——?"

It was impossible. He had every right to go out for a little, at least in the evening, after a whole day of fatigue.

He went out, and Regina sat down and read the terrible column of the Avanti called "What goes on in the world."

Madame Makuline left Rome two days later, but Antonio still went daily to the villa to see after the letters and dispatch certain affairs.

On Sunday he showed Regina the key, and told her the old servant left in charge of the house had asked leave of absence.

"At last we are proprietors of a villa," he said, joking.

Then Regina was assailed by a temptation. In vain, for some minutes, she tried to put it from her.

"Let us go to the villa," she proposed.

Antonio not only accepted, but seemed delighted. Could he be so cynical?

She put on a soft, white dress, with big, flopping sleeves, in which she looked very young and beautiful with the modern beauty which lies less in line than in expression. The dress was new, and Antonio admired it to her satisfaction. Notwithstanding the internal current of suspicion and resentment which continually fretted her soul, she could not do without pretty frocks. Sometimes she even felt a morbid pleasure in spending that money on objects of ornament and superfluity. She had resumed minute care of her complexion, her hair, her nails. She wasted half-hours in rubbing her face with oil of almonds, in dressing her hair to the fashion. What did she mean by it? To please Antonio, or to please others? She did not know, but, perceiving she was no longer angry with herself for her vain refinements, she questioned whether her moral sense were not growing daily weaker and weaker.

Scarcely had they started for the villa when a puff of contemptuous wind ruffled her hair and blew the powder from her face. It was a burning afternoon; the trees trembled at the breath of the hot wind; the Piazza, dazzling in the sunshine, seemed vaster even than usual. A veil of dust obscured the distance of the streets. The east wind was raging, its hot breath pregnant with malign suggestions.

Their heads bent, holding on their hats, Antonio and Regina took their way, and they laughed a little and squabbled a little. Arrived in front of the villa, they looked round like thieves. The street was deserted, swept by the wind; leaves of roses and geraniums fluttered to the pavement; a hot perfume of lilies rose from the garden. They seemed in an enchanted city, new, unknown, not yet inhabited.

When Antonio unlocked the polished door, Regina felt as if entering her own house, long dreamed of, attained by magic. Stepping into the vestibule, cool as the bed of the river, seemed like stepping into a bath. The wolves were covered with cloths, as if they had disguised themselves for fun in their mistress's absence. A small marble head, pallid behind a motionless palm-tree, faced the intruders with smiling lips. Regina walked softly by force of habit, and removed her hat before the veiled mirror. Then she remembered they were alone, and put the hat on the marble head with a laugh.

"Hush!" whispered her husband. "Don't make so much noise."

"Who is there to hear us?"

He opened a door. She followed him. They crossed the saloons and entered the dining-room. Antonio walked on tip-toe with a certain diffidence. He would not let Regina laugh.

"Aren't we here to play at being proprietors?" she asked. "Let's see if we can make some tea!"

"No, no," said Antonio. "I don't want the caretaker to find out we've been here. But stop—there should be some Madeira in the sideboard. Aha!"

They found the bottle and tasted it. Then they put everything back in its place. They were like children. Antonio became merry, and, without making a noise, began also to amuse himself. They returned to the drawing-room, and Regina partly opened the shutters. A green light illuminated one corner. Regina pretended to be holding a reception, mimicked the voice of the pretty blind lady, then lolled on Madame's favourite sofa. It was covered with grey fur, and suggested an immense sleeping cat.

In her soft dress, her hair falling loose on her forehead, her eyes burning, and it seemed artificially darkened, she looked, in the green penumbra, a real, great lady, blasÉe, lost in an unwholesome dream.

Antonio meantime tried to open the door which led to the terrace and the garden.

"Wait a bit," said Regina. "Let's look round up-stairs first. Have you ever been up-stairs?"

"I? Never."

"Well, come now. Leave that door locked. Come here. I want to tell you something!" she said, childishly.

"What is it? I'm looking for the key."

As if guessing her idea, he did not come to the lure.

Then she felt blaze up the wicked doubt which persecuted her. Yes, in this room, perhaps on this very divan, Antonio had stained his lips with hateful kisses!

She bit her lips to repress a shudder, then rose and hastened to the next room.

"Let's go in there. Never mind that door."

He crossed the room and joined her. Cat-like, Regina threw herself on his breast and kissed him. Illusion of the light? It seemed to her that Antonio's face became green, and she believed she had intuition of the drama evolving in his soul. Yes! he must at this moment be remembering something nauseous! an embrace, a kiss, which had stained his soul with infamy! Here, in this place to kiss the lips of his wife must be castigation for him!

Her delirium was increasing.

"Kiss me!" she imposed upon her husband, fixing on him eyes of tragic flame, and drawing him towards the divan. He certainly resisted; but he kissed her, his lips still scented with the wine. Then Regina, on fire with the madness of her doubt, believed the moment had come for tearing the vile secret from those lips, whose kisses gave her mortal anguish in this place where every object must remind Antonio of his miserable error.

But she was unable to formulate her horrible demand.

Afterwards they penetrated into the study and the library, where Antonio was accustomed to spend what he called his hours of service. It was a real library, with a thousand volumes artistically bound. Madame had shown Regina some ancient books, an illuminated codex, Ariosto's autograph, said to be genuine, some letters from celebrated authors, amongst them three signed Georges Sand. In spite of her pre-occupation, Regina amused herself looking through the glass of the bookshelves, as the street boys peer into the shop windows. Meantime Antonio glanced at the letters laid on the writing-table at which he was accustomed to dispatch the Princess's correspondence.

Regina presently made her way into the little adjoining room, a boudoir where Madame sometimes dined. Antonio followed. They opened the door and found themselves in a wide ante-chamber, which communicated with the garden. A back staircase led to the first floor. But all doors were locked except that of the bath-room. A little water, blue with soap, had been left in the bath.

Regina was watching Antonio, but he moved with hesitation, and she thought him unfamiliar with the house.

"I want to cross that bridge which connects the two parts of the villa," said Regina, shaking the lobby doors.

But everything was locked, so they descended again and went to the kitchen. Tufts of verdure almost blocked the barred window. Still, the golden afternoon light penetrated at the top. A background of flower-garden was discernible, and rose petals had fallen on the shining pavement. A marble table was splendid in the centre of the kitchen.

"It's like a church!" said Antonio, merry again. "Suppose we dance a little?"

"It's finer than our drawing-room," sighed Regina. "Oh! do be quiet!"

But he whirled her away with him round the table.

A magnificent black cat, asleep on the dresser, raised his great, round head, opened his orange eyes, and looked at the two liberty-taking people without moving. Regina shuddered, however.

"How silly we are!" she said. "Suppose the man were to come in and find us here? I declare I hear steps in the garden! Let us escape!"

But Antonio put on the cook's apron, pretended to cook, and, servant-fashion, spoke against the mistress. He suggested that she was a spy of the Russian Government. Regina listened and laughed, but reflected that in this kitchen was perhaps known and discussed that other secret of which she had not been able to rend the unclean veil.

She resented Antonio's gaiety, and an accident increased her ill-humour. The cat was still watching, now and then giving an ostentatious yawn. She tried to stroke him, stretching her hand over the dresser. But the cat sprang to a ledge higher up, and upset a flask. Big drops of oil, thick and yellow, rained on her white raiment, spotting it irreparably. She nearly cried with annoyance; foolish words came unconsciously from her mouth.

"Even my dress gets stained in this horrible house!"

Antonio listened, but seemed not to understand. He found a bottle of benzine, and helped Regina to clean her dress, then put everything back in its place, threw his arm round her waist, and made her run with him up the stair, careless of her stumbles, deaf to all protests and reproaches.

Thus they entered the garden, and Regina recovered her calm. The sinking sun gilded half the expanse, leaving the rest in deep shadow. The wind passed high up over the tops of the laurels, which were garlanded with white roses. From time to time a rain of rose-leaves, of lime-blossom, of wistaria, circled down through the hot air and fell on the paths. Regina and her husband sat in a green corner close to a hermes, on which was an archaic head. Black, hard, epicene, it had a complacent and sarcastic smile.

"He thinks us a pair of lovers," said Regina, remarking the expression. "No, my dear fellow, I assure you we are enemies!"

"And why?" asked Antonio, coldly.

Then a recollection shot through Regina's mind.

"Do you remember that day in the woods, two years ago, when you—had come for me? There were so many blue butterflies, just like these wistaria blossoms——"

She laughed meaningly. Did he remember? And the remembrance of that hour of pleasure passed in the mystery of the damp, hot woods the day after his coming to Regina's home, after her flight and their reconciliation, seemed to reawaken him to passion.

The childish gaiety which had animated him a few minutes before passed into a nervous tenderness, and this time it was he who sought the lips of his wife in a kiss, which reminded her of his kisses then.

And her doubts tormented her more than ever.

At sunset-time they went back into the house, but they did not yet go away. They wandered through the rooms abandoning themselves to childish extravagances. They ran about in the dark, and Regina, wailing over her dress, amused herself spitefully moving the furniture which Antonio put back into order.

Now and then they renewed their lover-like caresses. The warmth of the spring sunset came through the closed shutters and set Antonio's blood on fire. Regina found a perverse pleasure in enjoying the tenderness of her young husband there where she suspected he had stained the purity of his love.

Turbid poison was boiling in her soul. When Antonio kissed her, and trembled under her unaccustomed kisses, she fixed wild eyes on the dark corners, on the opaque brilliance of the veiled mirrors, trying to penetrate into the secrets of their vanished reflections. It seemed to her that the phantasm of "the old moon," of the purchaser of kisses, was there in the depth of some looking-glass, gnawing herself with jealousy and rage at the sight of Antonio giving his wife caresses, a single one of which all her millions was not sufficient to buy.

Thus Regina thought to take her revenge, but a flood of disgust rose more and more bitter from the depths of her heart. Disgust at herself and disgust at Antonio! How cynical must he be if he could thus disport himself in this place which knew his sin! or, if he were innocent, how contemptible if, with the passivity of a weak man, he could thus violate the house of his benefactress merely to amuse the ill-regulated, hysterical woman, who that day was concealing herself under the white dress and fashionable coiffure of Regina, his wife.

At the bottom of her soul, however, well at the bottom, beyond all consciousness, in its darkest, most mysterious depths, Regina cherished a bitter satisfaction in recognising how utterly this man belonged to herself. Always and everywhere, even in error, it was she who dominated him. And, because of this, notwithstanding all resentment, all disgust, even when she felt she no longer loved her husband, even when she despised herself, thinking her soul stained like her dress, corrupted in the soft air, the half-light, the poisoned fragrance of that house, where, it seemed, "anything might happen," she felt infinite pity for Antonio. And on this pity she lived.