On the evening of that same day a numerous company assembled in the Marchesa's red drawing-room. Pasotti had brought his unlucky wife by main force, and he had brought Signor Giacomo Puttini also, although that gentleman had held out for some time against the most gracious Controller's despotic caprices. The curate of Puria and Paolin had also put in an appearance, both being anxious to observe the effects of the tragedy on the old lady's marble countenance. Paolin of course dragged the worthy Paolon in his wake, he being still in a state of limp and sheepish resistance. The curate of Cima, who was devoted to the Marchesa, came also, as did the prefect of Caravina, whose heart really belonged to Franco and Luisa, but who, as parish-priest of Cressogno, was bound to treat their enemy with a certain amount of consideration.

She received them all with her usual impassive expression, with her usual calm greeting. Signora Barborin, who had been cautioned by her master against alluding to the event at Oria, was made to sit on the sofa beside her hostess, who graciously accepted the homage of the others, put the usual questions to Paolin and Paolon concerning their respective consorts, and having satisfied herself that both Paolina and Paolona were enjoying the best of health, she folded her hands over her stomach and relapsed into dignified silence, her courtiers forming a semicircle around her. Pasotti, noting the absence of Friend, inquired for him with obsequious solicitude. "And Friend? Dear little Friend?" Although, had he had him in his clutches—solus cum solo—the nasty, little snarling beast which worried his trousers and his wife's skirts, he would have joyfully wrung his neck. Friend had been ill for two days. The entire company was greatly affected by this news, and loudly deplored the misfortune, secretly hoping the while that the accursed little monster might not recover. Barborin, not hearing a word, but seeing so many mouths at work, so many faces assuming a look of affliction, naturally supposed they were speaking of Oria, and turning to her neighbour Paolon, questioned him with her eyes, opening her mouth and pointing towards Oria. Paolon shook his head. "They are talking about the little dog," said he. The deaf woman did not understand, but she said: "Ah!" on general principles, and assumed an expression of affliction like the rest.

Friend ate too much, and his food was too rich, and he was now suffering from a disgusting skin disease. Paolin and the curate of Puria gave much careful advice. The prefect of Caravina had elsewhere expressed the charitable opinion that the creature ought to be pitched into the lake with his mistress tied to his neck. While the others were discussing the favourite with such lively interest, the prefect was thinking of Luisa as he had seen her that morning, her features distorted, opposing mad resistance first to the closing of the coffin, and then to its removal. He was thinking how, in the cemetery, she with her own hands had cast the earth upon her child, telling her to be patient, that she herself would soon come and lie down beside her, and that that would be their Paradise.

In spite of the animated and eager conversation concerning the mangy Friend, the phantoms of the dead child and the distracted mother were hovering in the room. Presently there came a moment of silence when no one could think of anything more to say about the dog, and then the two unhappy phantoms were heard by all, demanding that they speak of them, and all could see them distinctly in the eyes of one who loved them, in the eyes of poor, deaf Barborin. Her husband at once sought a diversion, and propounded a problem in tarocchi to Signor Giacomo. The other tarocchi enthusiasts immediately took up the question, the voices of the phantoms could no longer be heard, and every one breathed more freely.

It was nine o'clock. Usually at that hour the footman would come in with two lighted candles, and prepare the little tarocchi table in one corner of the room, between the great fireplace and the balcony on the West. Then the Marchesa would rise and say, with her habitual, drowsy calm:

"If you are ready——"

The two or three guests would invariably answer: "Quite ready," and then the three-handed or four-handed game would begin.

The old footman—who was devotedly attached to Don Franco—hesitated that night about bringing the candles. He did not believe it possible that his mistress and her guests would have the courage to play. At five minutes past nine, as the footman had not yet appeared, each one began privately commenting upon the delay. Before entering the house Paolin had maintained that there would be no playing, while the prefect had maintained the contrary. He now cast a triumphant glance at his adversary, as did also Paolon, who, from a spirit of solidarity with the other Paul, was pleased that he should be in the right. Pasotti, who had felt sure of his game, began to show signs of uneasiness. At seven minutes past nine the Marchesa requested the prefect to ring the bell. It was now the prefect's turn to bestow a triumphant glance on Paolin, and he put into it all the silent contempt for the old woman that it would hold.

"Prepare the table," said the Marchesa to the footman. He soon returned with the two candles. From the depths of his sorrowful eyes also, the phantom of the dead child looked forth. While he was busy arranging the candles, the cards, and the ivory counters on the table, the room was enveloped in that silence which always preceded the rising of the Marchesa. But the Marchesa showed no intention of rising. She turned to Pasotti, saying:

"Controller, if you and the others wish to play——"

"Marchesa," Pasotti promptly replied, "my wife's presence must not deter you from enjoying your game. Barborin is not a good player, but she delights in looking on."

"I shall not play this evening," the Marchesa answered, and although the tone was mild, the refusal was decisive.

The worthy Paolon, who was always silent and could not play tarocchi, believed he had at last discovered a word which was both wise and obsequious, and which he might safely utter:

"Exactly!" said he.

Pasotti gave him a surly glance, thinking: "What business is it of his?" but he did not venture to speak. The Marchesa appeared not to have noticed Paolon's utterance, and added:

"The others can play if they like."

"Never!" exclaimed the prefect. "We should not think of such a thing!"

Pasotti drew his snuff-box from his pocket. "The Signor Prefetto," said he, speaking very distinctly, and slightly raising his open hand, a pinch of snuff between the thumb and forefinger, "The Signor Prefetto must speak for himself. For my part, as the Signora Marchesa wishes us to play, I am quite willing to oblige her."

The Marchesa was silent, and the fiery prefect, encouraged by her silence, grumbled in an undertone:

"After all, we are in a house of mourning."

Never since Franco had left the house had his name been mentioned at these evening assemblies in the red drawing-room, nor had the Marchesa even alluded either to him or to his wife. She now broke the silence that had lasted four years.

"I am sorry for the baby," said she, "but as for her father and mother, the Almighty has seen fit to punish them."

No one spoke. After some minutes Pasotti said in a low and solemn tone:

"A fearful punishment!"

And the curate of Cima added in a louder voice:

"A manifest punishment!"

Paolin dared not remain silent, neither did he dare speak, so he ejaculated: "Dear, dear!" and this encouraged Paolon to repeat his "Exactly!" Signor Giacomo simply puffed.

"A chastisement from the Almighty!" the curate of Cima repeated with emphasis. "And also, considering the circumstances, a mark of His especial regard for some one else." All, save the prefect, who was chafing inwardly, looked at the Marchesa as if the protecting hand of the Omnipotent were suspended above her wig. But instead that Divine Hand was hovering above the lofty bonnet of Barborin Pasotti, and was keeping her ears tightly closed, that they might not hear those contaminating and iniquitous words. "Curate," said Pasotti, "as the Signora Marchesa has proposed it, shall we have a little game? You, Paolin, Signor Giacomo, and I?"

The four, seated in their corner at the little card table, at once gave themselves up to the luxury of unrestrained conversation, and to the enjoyment of certain stale, Ambrosian [P] witticisms, which cling to the tarocchi cards like grease.

"I shall get there first!" Pasotti exclaimed after the first round, laughing loudly, with the intention of proclaiming both his victory and his good spirits.

The players had rid themselves of the phantoms; not so the others. The deaf woman, sitting stiff and motionless on the sofa, had suffered mortal anguish, dreading a gesture from her husband which should command her to play. Oh, dear Lord! was she to be made to suffer this also? By the grace of Heaven the sign was not given, and her first feeling upon seeing the four seat themselves at the little table had been one of relief. But at once bitter disgust seized her. What an insult that game was to her Luisa! What contempt it showed for poor, dear little Maria, who was dead! No one spoke to her, no one noticed her, so she began to recite in her heart a string of Paters, Aves, and Glorias, for the soul of that wicked creature seated at the other end of the sofa, who was so old, so rapidly approaching the moment when she must appear before her God. She repeated, for her benefit, the prayer for the conversion of sinners which she had been in the habit of repeating night and morning for her husband's benefit, ever since she had discovered his over-familiarity with a certain menial attached to her household.

When the prefect heard Pasotti's outburst of mirth, he rose to take his leave. "Wait," said the Marchesa, "you must have a glass of wine." At half-past nine a precious bottle of old San Colombano was usually brought in. "I shall not drink to-night," said the prefect heroically, "I have been greatly upset ever since this morning. Puria knows why."

"Dear, dear!" said Puria softly. "Of course it was a terrible tragedy."

Silence. The prefect bowed to the Marchesa, saluted Signor Pasotti with an expression that said: "You and I understand each other," and left the room.

The curate of Puria, who was possessed of a big body and a level head, was studying the Marchesa without appearing to do so. Was she or was she not affected by the events at Oria? Her having refrained from playing seemed to him a doubtful symptom. She might have done so simply out of respect for her own flesh and blood. On closer observation the curate noticed that her hands trembled; this was unusual. She forgot to ask Pasotti if the wine was good; this also was unusual. Her face with its waxen mask, twitched violently from time to time; this was extremely unusual. "She is touched!" thought the curate. As she was perfectly silent, and as Signora Pasotti and Paolon were also silent, the whole group seemed turned to stone. Puria cast about for a means of breaking the ice, but could find nothing better than to induce those three heads to turn towards the card-table, while he commented upon Pasotti's exclamations, upon Paolin's and Signor Giacomo's ejaculations and puffings. The Marchesa roused herself somewhat, and expressed her satisfaction that the players were enjoying themselves. Barborin neither heard nor spoke a word, so the three others ended by talking about her. The Marchesa complained that she was so deaf it was impossible to converse with her. The other two lavished upon her all the praise she so richly deserved, the praise all those who remember her still lavish upon her. There she sat, sad and speechless, never suspecting that she was the subject of their conversation. The Lord protected her profound and simple meekness, by never allowing the praises of the world to enter into her ears, but only the scoldings of her worthy consort.

Her great, sorrowful black eyes brightened when Signor Giacomo uttered a loud and final puff, and his companions, dropping their cards, threw themselves back in their respective chairs to rest a little and reflect upon the delights of the game. At last her master approached the sofa, and motioned to her to rise. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she was glad to get into the boat.

When her guests had left, the Marchesa rang the bell for the rosary, which they had not been able to repeat at the usual hour. The rosary was a living thing in Casa Maironi, having its roots in the Marchesa's past sins, and its growth was steady, for it was always putting forth fresh Aves and Glorias, as the old lady became more advanced in years, and saw her own disgusting skull looming before her, ever more distinct, ever more apparent. Consequently her rosary was extremely long. The sweet peccadillos of her protracted youth did not trouble her conscience over-much, but there were certain other transgressions which could be computed in pounds, shillings, and pence, transgressions never properly confessed and therefore never properly forgiven, and these caused her great uneasiness; an uneasiness she was continually trying to stifle by means of rosaries, but which was forever bursting out afresh. While she was praying to the Great Creditor for the remission of her debts, she would feel perfect confidence in His power to remit them all, but later there would once more loom before her mind's eye the sorrowful faces of the lesser creditors, bringing with them doubts concerning the pardon received, and thus her avarice and her pride were ever struggling against the fear of a perpetual debtor's prison beyond the tomb.

When they had recited the prayers for the conversion of sinners, and those for the healing of the sick, and were about to begin the De Profundis, she announced three new Ave Marias, without, however, stating for what purpose. The scullery maid, a simple peasant from Cressogno, supposed these Ave Marias were intended for the unhappy family at Oria, and recited them with extreme fervour. The scullery-maid's Aves clashed with and routed those of her mistress, which were asking for sleep, and rest for the nerves and conscience. As to the Ave Marias of all the others, they were repeated in the common hope that they might not remain definitely attached to the rosary, as too often happened. In short, no one succeeded in checking the onward march of the ghost.

Towards eleven o'clock the Marchesa retired. She drank some citron-water, and the maid having begun to talk of Oria and of Don Franco, who, it was whispered, had returned, she ordered her to be silent. She was certainly affected. She saw continually before her eyes the image of Maria as she had once seen her when passing in her gondola below the little Gilardoni villa; a slight figure in a white apron, with long hair and bare arms, and strangely like a child of her own who had died when only three. Did she feel affection or pity? She herself could not tell what she felt. Perhaps it was only irritation and terror at not being able to rid herself of an annoying image; perhaps it was fear at the thought that if a certain great sin had not been committed long ago, if Marchese Franco's will had not been burnt, the child would not have died.

When she was in bed she had the maid read some prayers to her, then she ordered her to put out the light, and finally dismissed her. She closed her eyes, trying not to think of anything, and saw beneath her eyelids, a shapeless, light spot, which little by little transformed itself into a small pillow, then into a letter, then into a large white chrysanthemum, and at last into a pale, drooping, dead face, that gradually grew smaller and smaller. She fancied she was falling asleep, but as a result of this last transformation the thought of the child shot through her heart, and although she saw nothing more beneath her eyelids, her drowsiness vanished, and she opened her eyes, vexed and uneasy. She determined to think out a game of tarocchi in order to drive away these troublesome fancies, and induce sleep. She thought of the game, and succeeded, by an effort, in seeing in her mind's eye the little card-table, the players, the candles, the cards; but when she relaxed the tension of effort, in order to give herself up to a passive contemplation of these soporific phantoms, something totally different appeared beneath her eyelids—a head which was continually changing its features, its expression, its position, and which, at last, slowly drooped forward, as in sleep or death, so that she could only see the hair. This was another shock to her nerves. The Marchesa once more opened her eyes, and heard the clock on the stairs begin to strike. She counted the strokes; twelve o'clock. It was already midnight, and she could not get to sleep! She lay some time with wide open eyes, and now images began to appear in the dark as they had before appeared beneath her eyelids. At first there was only a formless nucleus, which soon began to undergo transformation. She saw the face of a clock which presently turned into the horrible eye of a fish, and then became an angry, human eye. Suddenly the Marchesa felt quite sure she would not be able to go to sleep at all, and once more the drowsiness that had already taken firm hold on her, was put to flight. Then she rang the bell.

The maid let her ring twice, and then came in, half dressed and sleepy. She was ordered to place the candle upon a chair in such a position that the flame might not be visible from the bed, to get a volume of Barbieri's sermons, and to read in a low voice. The maid was in the habit of administering these narcotics. She began to read, but at the end of the second page, hearing her mistress's breathing grow deeper, she very gradually lowered her voice, until it became only an inarticulate murmur, and finally lapsed into silence. She waited a moment, listening to the deep and regular breathing, then rose and went to look at the dark face turned upwards on the pillows, with wrinkled brow and half-open mouth. Then she took up the candle and went out on tiptoe.

The Marchesa was asleep and dreaming. She was dreaming that she was stretched on a bed of straw in a great dark dungeon, chains upon her ankles, and accused of murder. The judge entered with a light, sat down beside her, and read her a sermon on the necessity of confession. She kept protesting that she was innocent, and repeating: "Don't you know she was drowned?" The judge made no answer, but went on reading in a mournful and solemn voice, while the Marchesa insisted: "No, no! I did not kill her!" In her dream she was no longer phlegmatic, but writhed like one in despair. "Remember that the child herself says so," the judge replied. He rose to his feet, repeating: "She says so." Then he struck the palm of one hand loudly upon the palm of the other, and called out: "Enter!" Thus far the Marchesa had been conscious in her dream that she was dreaming; at this point she thought she awoke, and saw with horror, that some one had indeed entered the room.

A human form, slightly luminous, was seated in the armchair heaped with clothes that stood beside her bed, but in such a position that she could not distinguish the lower part of the apparition. Its shoulders, arms, and clasped hands were of a whitish hue, and indistinct in outline, but its head, that rested against the chair-back, was distinctly visible, and surrounded by a pale light. The dark, living eyes were staring at the Marchesa. Oh, horror! It was indeed the dead child! Oh, horror! Oh, horror! The eyes of the apparition spoke, and accused her. The judge was right, the child was saying so—without words—with her eyes! "It was you who did it, Grandmother, you! I should have been born, should have lived under your roof. You would not have it. Your punishment shall be death everlasting!"

The eyes alone, the staring, sad, pitiful eyes said all these things at once. The Marchesa uttered a long groan, and stretched out her arms towards the apparition, trying to say something, and succeeding only in gasping out: "Ah—ah—ah—" while the hands, the arms, the shoulders of the phantom vanished in a mist, the outlines of its face became blurred, and only the gaze remained, staring intently, and then finally becoming veiled was absorbed, as it were, into a deep and distant Self, nothing remaining of the apparition save a slight phosphorescence which was presently lost in the darkness.

The Marchesa awoke with a start. In her agitation she forgot the bell, and tried to call out, but could not raise her voice. By an effort of her will, which was still strong in spite of her failing bodily strength, she thrust her legs out of bed, and stood upright. She staggered forward a step or two in the dark, stumbling against the easy-chair, and clutched at another chair, dragging it down with her as she fell heavily to the ground, where she lay moaning.

The noise of the fall roused the maid, who called out to her mistress, but receiving no answer, and hearing the moaning, she lighted her candle and hastened into the room, where, in the dim light between the armchair and the bed she saw something large and white that was writhing on the floor like some huge marine monster, that has been cast upon the shore. She screamed and rushed to the bell, rousing the whole house at once, and then hastened to help the old woman, who was groaning: "The priest! The priest! The prefect! The prefect!"

[P] Ambrosian: From St. Ambrose, patron of Milan. Therefore, Milanese. [Translator's note.]