A strong, fresh wind was coming from the deep, raising the waters of the Adriatic in long waves of incomparable light green, to hurl them, as they curved, rolled, and almost curled in greenish white with a crown of the whitest foam, and fragrant with the sharp smell of the sea, on the long, straight shore of the Lido. The waves broke one after the other, almost on top of each other, on the soft, yellow sand of the beach, which became dark with ever-increasing dark weals, and stained by the swelling water as the waves gained ground. Here and there the little mounds of seaweed and marine refuse on the sand were invaded, covered, and demolished, as they became higher and lower with the suction of the waves: here and there holes and little ditches full of water were being formed. The strong, fresh wind whirled round the fashionable huts that stretched numerously in a line far along the straight beach, and whirled around the vast bathing establishment of the Lido, causing the doors of the little cabins to rattle, and the linen to flutter, which here and there had been exposed to dry: it whirled round the immense covered terrace of the cafÉ, causing the awnings to flap which were still lowered against the sun.

Although it was one of the last days of September and the afternoon was advancing, the sea was thronged here and there with heads of bathers, whilst the beach was full of people coming and going to and from the sea, from the cabins and the little wooden staircases and gangways. Down below on the shore, by the huts, were children of various ages, watched over by nurses and governesses, who were entering and leaving the water, flying with little cries of joy from the tallest waves, rolling on the sand, and jumping up again in a laughing, delightful group. Rather nearer, black dots, with brightly coloured coifs, large straw hats, sailing and swimming on the pale green waves, indicated men and women who were enjoying one of the last days of summer, who were enjoying the sea with its clear waters and disturbed waves, with perfumes so exhilarating, and wind so fresh, and the great beach and soft shore. From the horizon, on the incomparable green of the Adriatic, two vessels approached in fraternal movement, following, catching up, and passing each other, but pursuing the same course. One had three sails, all yellow, of a yellow-ochre, with certain strange signs of darker yellow on their background; the other had sails of red-bronze, with designs of deep red. When they were nearer, one could see that on the yellow sails were designed a cross, nails, a crown of thorns, to wit, a reminder of the Passion of Jesus Christ; on the other was a little Madonna of the Carmine—the Ave Maria Stella.

Towards four o'clock the terrace of the cafÉ, bathed by the sun, was empty, with its hundred little tables round which the flies buzzed; some of the awnings were lowered, others were half raised. Slowly the scene changed. The wind became stronger and fresher from the depths; the children decided to enter the huts to dress, as they continued their happy cries; one by one the other bathers re-entered their cabins. The sea became deserted, only on the shore the number of persons who were promenading slowly increased, as they tried to walk on the deep sand where the feet sank. Now and then they halted to watch the sea, whose waves became higher and whiter with their rounded crests, as if the better to breathe the grand fresh air, full of saline aroma. Now other great vessels appeared, more or less in the offing, with yellow, coppery, and maroon sails, rendered darker by sun and brine.

The scene changed on the terrace as the sun declined. All the awnings were raised, some frequenters appeared to sit by the balustrade that gives on to the beach, to take a place at the little tables along this balustrade, whence all the vastness and beauty of that admirable Lido seascape is to be viewed. The little steamers that perform the small crossing—less than a crossing, a ferry—between Venice and the island of the Lido half an hour ago had arrived almost empty, but now they were sending people continually towards the shore, people who left the motionless waters of the shining, grey lagoon, crossed the island still green with little trees, still flourishing with growing flowers and plants, and came to gaze at the free, resonant Adriatic, with its wonderful green and white waves, with a sigh of relief and a smile of greeting for the magnificent Italian sea.

Two or three tables were at first occupied; other people arrived. Then the waiters began to glide from table to table, a little bored, carrying large trays with the necessaries for tea, pink and yellow sorbettes, drinks piled with little pieces of ice, wherein was fixed a straw. It was not a large crowd, like that of strangers of all nations in April, when they are mysteriously attired in voluptuous flattery of the Venetian spring, not the great, indigenous, Italian crowd of the month of August, that chatters and laughs at the top of its voice, the ladies dressed in white, fanning themselves, as they drink large glasses of iced beer, far too much in the German manner! It was the crowd of the end of September, a little curious and strange, mingled with foreigners who had come from Switzerland and the Italian lakes, mingled with the Italians who had come from the Alps to the plains at the end of the summer season. The crowd round the tables was small and not chatty or noisy. To the charming, languid, sweet Venetian dialect issuing from the beautiful lips of women, here and there was united a French word, but above all was mingled the rough German talk—in the majority everywhere, as usual. The wind was now very fresh, and dull the breaking of the waves down below on the soft sand: a few promenaders went on the shore, watching the warm tints of the sunset on the horizon, while large vessels filed past with yellow-ochre sails, from which the Virgin Mary gave her blessing.

For some time Vittorio Lante remained alone at a small table in a far corner of the terrace: before him was a tall glass full of a greenish drink, exhaling a smell of peppermint, but he forgot to sip it. The keen expression of life, which had distinguished him in the Engadine, had vanished from the young man's graceful but virile face. He seemed calm, but without thoughts, and all his features appeared grosser in that thoughtless calm. His eyes glanced without vivacity, as they fixed themselves indifferently on the people and things around him; he was not sad or happy, but indifferent. He smoked a cigarette and lit another, which remained between his fingers without his bringing it to his mouth, while a thread of smoke issued from it. Suddenly someone stopped at his table, bent over him, and called him, as he greeted him in a low voice. He raised his eyes and was amazed to see Lucio Sabini standing before him.

"Dear Vittorio, you here!"

"Dear Sabini, welcome!"

They shook hands and looked at each other for a long moment, as if each wished to read in the other's face the story of the two years in which they had not seen each other. Certainly Lucio Sabini was the more deeply changed. His black hair, where up to thirty-five not a single silver thread had appeared, now was quite streaked with white round the temples; his face from being thin had become fleshless; his black eyes that had been so proud seemed extinguished; the shoulders of the tall, slender figure were a little bent, and all his physiognomy had an expression of weariness, of failing strength, of vanished energy.

"Are you alone, Vittorio?"

"I am here alone, Sabini."

"Disengaged?"

"Yes."

"Then I will sit a little with you."

He sat down opposite him, and became silent, as he watched the sea.

"Won't you take something, dear friend?" asked Vittorio, with careful courtesy.

"If I must, I will take some sort of coloured water," murmured Lucio Sabini, and his long, brown, very thin hand brushed his black moustache in a familiar gesture. Again they looked at each other intensely. Lucio seemed to make an effort to begin an ordinary conversation.

"Have you been long in Venice, Vittorio?"

"No, just a week. We have come from Vallombrosa, where we stayed till September was advanced."

"Is Vallombrosa amusing?"

"No; boring."

"Your wife, Donna Livia, likes it?"

"Exactly. She likes forests with their large trees. She lived there from morning till evening."

"Is Donna Livia here?"

"I left her for tea with some friends in Venice, and came here to pass an hour alone."

"Is she willing to leave you alone?"

"She lets me. She knows I like my freedom ... to do nothing with it. So she herself lets me go free, to please me."

They spoke in a low voice, bending a little over the table, looking distractedly, now at the beverages from which they had not sipped a drop, now a little to their right at the shore and the sea; but their glances seemed to be aware of nothing. Suddenly Lucio Sabini, fixing his worn-out eyes on those of Vittorio, questioned him more brightly, with his dull voice from which all timbre seemed extinguished.

"Are you happy, Vittorio?"

"I am not happy, but I am not unhappy," he replied, turning his head away, as if to hide the sudden expression of his face.

"Are you contented with that?"

"I have no choice of anything else," replied Vittorio, with a wan smile.

"And is Donna Livia happy?"

"She asks nothing else of life than to have me. She has me."

"Then all is well, Vittorio?"

"Yes, for Livia."

"And for you?"

"Oh, for me nothing can go well or ill, Sabini."

This he said with such an accent of indifference, of detachment, that it amounted more to sadness. After a slight hesitation Lucio resumed:

"Vittorio, you were ardently in love with that American girl."

"Ardently is the word," agreed Vittorio Lante, in a rather louder voice.

"How did you let her escape you?"

"I gave her up."

"Although you loved her?"

"Yes, although I adored her, I gave her up."

"But why?"

"So as not to be dishonoured, Lucio. Had I married her I should have been dishonoured."

"Because of her money."

"Exactly; because of her superfluity of money, her immense amount of money; because of my immense poverty."

A soft veil passed before Vittorio's eyes. The other looked at him, and said:

"It hurts you, then, to talk of this?"

"Yes, now and then it hurts me; but the pain is always less, and always at greater intervals, Sabini. I am almost cured."

"Did you suffer much?"

"Very much, as if I should die of it. However, I am not dead; it seems one doesn't die of that."

"Do you think so?" asked Lucio, waving a hand.

"I don't know," he murmured; "I had my mother, whom I ought not to make more unhappy; perhaps I was unworthy to conceive a lofty sorrow. Who knows? I haven't been given either a great soul or great will. It is not my fault if I am not dead, if I am almost healed."

This time a sense of irony against himself and his own mediocrity escaped from his indifference.

"Poor Vittorio!" said Lucio, pressing his hand across the table, "tell me everything. You can tell me everything, I can understand."

"Oh, mine isn't such an interesting story!" exclaimed Vittorio, with a pale smile of irony; "if you like, it is rather a stupid story. I was such a fool in the Engadine! I went there to find a girl, neither too beautiful nor too ugly, and not very rich, who could drag my mother and myself out of our difficulties; I went with a definite programme, a vulgar but definite programme, unromantic but definite, that of a dowry-hunter. Instead of looking for a mediocre girl, with a dowry of six or seven hundred thousand lire, like a child, like an idiot, I make straight for Mabel Clarke, who has fifty millions. I put forward my candidature as a flirt to good purpose, and conquered all rivals. Fool, thrice a fool that I was! Instead of keeping my presence of mind, and all my wits, I fall in love with her because she is beautiful, fresh, young, new, and of another race; because we were free, and left free, as is the American custom, as you know quite well, so that at last the girl of fifty millions falls in love with me."

"She did love you, then?"

"Yes, she loved me in her way," answered Vittorio, shortly.

"She suffered through you."

"She suffered less intensely, but longer, perhaps. Even in this she beat me, Lucio! What a common story, is it not? How could I have thought that the world and my destiny would have permitted me to marry Mabel Clarke with her fifty millions, to be the son-in-law of John Clarke, who, at his death, would have left other two hundred millions? I? I? And why? Who was I, more than another, of my country or another, of my set or another, who was I to reach to such power? I was neither a true pleasure-seeker, nor properly vicious, nor a cynic. Seriously, I was nothing but a—calculator. I was nothing serious, my friend. If I had been in earnest as a calculator I should not have fallen in love with Mabel Clarke. What a mistake, or rather, what a gaucherie!"

"You can't forget her, Vittorio," whispered Lucio, looking at him with tender eyes.

"You are wrong. I forget her more and more. Besides, have I not married Livia?"

"Why did you make that marriage?"

"Que faire?" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. "I was so sad, so broken in bone and soul, as if I had fallen from a precipice, and had been dragged out half living. I was so bored. And poor little Livia was languishing in silence waiting for me. And did not my mother look at me with beseeching eyes every time I went to Terni? I married through sadness, fastidiousness, weakness, to make an end of everything, and, as you see, in spite of all my ardent love for Mabel Clarke I did not know how to be faithful to her for more than a year. The American girl had foreseen it—Mabel Clarke was stronger, wiser, more direct than I, and much better too. She humbled me in sending a rich gift to Livia on her wedding, and she invited us to America. Ah, how strange these women are!"

"She invited you to America? She writes to you?"

"Often, long letters. From the very first she wanted me to go to America to gain money with John Clarke, and she did not believe she would offend me by asking me."

They were both silent for a moment, absorbed and concentrated. Around them people began to leave the tables, as the shadows of dusk were falling from the sky on sea and beach and the flowered island; but they were unaware of it.

"Besides, dear Sabini," resumed Vittorio, with a degree of greater sarcasm, "I am less poor than I was formerly. Then I spent too much to find the heiress with the great fortune, to live grandly, and to travel. When I announced that I was marrying Livia, Uncle Costrucci, an old clerical, was moved, and let us have, for our natural lifetime, a beautiful suite of apartments in old Rome, in via Botheghe Oscure. Mamma has come to live with us, and her cousin, Farnese, made her a present of a carriage. Ours is a marriage which has been made by public subscription! We have our house and our carriage. Livia is so charming in her discreet toilettes, discreet in every fashion. I haven't to strive as I thought, I have not even been forced to work as I supposed. There is nothing of the heroic in me—a mediocre destiny, and a mediocre life!"

"Ah, Vittorio, you still suffer," said Lucio, in a deeply moved voice.

"In my amour-propre, I confess. Think, Lucio, how I have been treated—surrounded, knocked on the head like a lamb under calumnies, defamations and vituperations, in every land where international society gathers—and how I have been unable to cuff a single one of my adversaries. Think how rivers of ink have been poured out in the papers of two worlds to defame me, and how I have been unable to spit in the face of a single one of those journalists; think how I have been unable to defend myself or offer a fight, solely because I loved Mabel and Mabel loved me. And afterwards, Lucio, what an incurable offence to my amour-propre, this breaking off the marriage, which sanctions the calumnies, this breaking off ... and how everyone laughed at me afterwards, and if they do not laugh at Livia and me now it is because we are a quiet, modest mÉnage that lives in the shade—we are an insignificant couple now."

"Another man, Vittorio, would never have consented to breaking off the marriage."

"Another! I consented because I loved Mabel; I loved her like a child, like a Don Quixote, with such fire and devotion as to become a hero—and I so mediocre! Through love I renounced my every good, but of my own free will. Ah, if I had not loved her! If I had been a cold and interested man, even under the impulse of an amorous caprice; if I had kept my clearness of mind, even in flirting to extremes, how different everything would have been. If I had not loved her I could have fled with her ten times from the Engadine, and she would have been compromised and the marriage would have been inevitable. If I had not loved her I would not so ingenuously have allowed her to set out alone for America; if I had not loved her I would have provoked a duel at every defamation and reduced my defamers to silence. At the first injurious article of the American newspapers I would have gone over there to make them show cause in the law courts; if I had not loved her I should have been able to force her to keep her engagements, and I should have obtained her by force, her and her fortune; but I should have obtained her. I loved her, and I destroyed my happiness and my life."

With dreamy eyes, full of incurable sadness, he gazed at the Adriatic which was becoming intensely green, like an emerald, in the twilight. He added:

"Lucio, love has been my mistake; I committed suicide because of it. But what is more laughable and grotesque, I survive my suicide."

In spite of his cold delirium, as he turned to Lucio he perceived that he had become pale, as if he were about to die; he saw that Lucio's thin brown hand was pressing his cigarette-case convulsively. Vittorio composed himself, turned towards his friend, and touching his hand lightly, said:

"How I beg your pardon! I must have bored you so much with this tale of my woes."

Lucio Sabini bowed a denial with a vague and sad gesture of his hand, without replying; he bowed his denial with a vague smile that vanished immediately.

"Do not think that I tell everyone how it still torments me in the depths of my soul; no one knows anything of it; none must know. But you went up with me to the Engadine on a summer evening, do you remember? You were a witness of my joy up there."

"And also you, Vittorio, were my witness up there," murmured Lucio, grimly and gloomily.

Vittorio trembled and leant over the table to Lucio.

"Ah, that too is a sad story," he murmured.

"Sad do you call it, only sad?" exclaimed the other, with a great vibration of sorrow in his voice. Confused and disturbed, Vittorio in his turn stammered:

"I knew—I read."

"What did you know? What did you read?" asked Lucio Sabini in a strong, vibrant voice.

"In the papers ... a few lines ... I read of Miss Lilian Temple's accident," added Vittorio in a low voice.

"You mean to say Miss Lilian Temple's death, my friend," exclaimed Lucio, with a strange accent; "she is dead, my friend."

"I did not wish to pronounce the word death, my friend," Vittorio replied quietly.

Now they were alone on the terrace, on which the evening was descending. Everyone had left to take the little steamer back to Venice from the other side of the Lido. The terrace was quite deserted, and all the Lido shore, whose yellow sand remained bright beneath the evening shadows; and deserted the ample Adriatic, now of the deepest green in the evening gloom.

"She was twenty," said a weak, feeble voice, which Vittorio hardly recognised as Lucio's.

"It is very early to die."

"I ought to have died, I who am thirty-seven, and have lived double that time, I who am tired, old, and finished with everything. It was just that I should die, not she, who was twenty," said the weak voice.

"But how did the accident happen?" asked Vittorio.

"What accident?"

"The Alpine catastrophe in which the poor little girl perished."

Ah, what a horrible smile of torture contracted Lucio's livid lips!

"There was no accident, there was no Alpine catastrophe. Miss Lilian Temple killed herself."

"Killed herself?" cried Vittorio, stupefied.

"She killed herself."

"Are you sure of it?"

"As of my life and death. She killed herself."

"Ah, how cruel! how atrocious!" broke in Vittorio.

"And she was only twenty," replied the feeble voice again, like a lament.

A heavy, lugubrious silence fell upon the twain, in that solitary corner of the great deserted terrace before the Adriatic.

"Would you like to read her last words, Vittorio?" asked Lucio.

The other started and nodded. Lucio drew out from an inner pocket his pocket-book, took from it a long white envelope, and drew delicately from it a picture post card. The two friends bent forward together over that piece of paper to distinguish its design and read the words thereon. On one side the post card had the address written in slender, tall calligraphy and firm handwriting, "À Don Lucio Sabini, Lung' Arno Serristori, Firenze." The postage-stamp was of the 24th of April of the previous year, and came from the Hospice of the Bernina. On the other side was a great panorama of glaciers, of lofty, terrible peaks, and printed beneath the German words, "Gruss vom Diavolezza." The same slender, upright characters had written, in a corner of the card, beneath the great strip of white of the glacier in English, "For ever, my love.—Lilian." Both raised their heads and looked at each other.

"She died the next day, the 25th of April," said Lucio, holding the card in his hands and gazing at it, as if he saw it for the first time. "These are her last words. She wrote them in the Hospice of the Bernina, and posted them in the letter-box of the faÇade of the Hospice. Next morning she left very early for La Diavolezza; at four o'clock in the afternoon she was dead, having fallen headlong from a lofty crevasse of the Isola Persa."

He spoke slowly, with a precise accent, that rendered even more sorrowful the expression of his words.

"Would you like to see where she died, Vittorio?" he resumed. "Look carefully."

Again, with tragic curiosity in the evening half-light, the two men leant over that funereal document.

"Look carefully. This is La Diavolezza, a mountain which is climbed without great difficulty, and where is unfolded an immense panorama of glaciers and peaks. I have been there and described it to her. Look carefully; she reached as far as here, and rested only an hour in this Alpine hut. She wanted to proceed at once to the glacier here, where it is marked, the Perso Glacier, this great black moraine that cuts the glacier in two, which is called the Isola Persa—it is written beneath. Look closely; you will not discover the crevasse where she fell, where she wished to fall, but it is here—where she wished to fall and to die."

"But how do you know?"

"She cut the rope which fastened her to her guide with a knife."

"Who told you that?"

"The guide told me: I saw the little torn piece of cut rope. I went over all Lilian Temple's last journey," said Lucio gloomily.

Suddenly he threw himself with arms and head on the table, holding to his mouth the post card whereon were written Lilian Temple's last words murmuring with tearless sighs that rent his breast:

"Oh, my love, my love ... at twenty."

Silent, astonished, Vittorio waited till the moment of weak anguish passed. Then he leant towards the man, whose sighs became less, and said to him:

"Lucio, pull yourself together. Let us go away." The electric lamps, which had been suddenly lit, illuminated the terrace; the waiters arrived with linen, glass, and silver to set the tables for dinner, since foreigners and Venetians, on warm evenings, came to dine there in the open air before the sea, where one of the usual orchestras played. There was a coming and going of these waiters, and a rattling of glass and china. In dull, equal, monotonous voice, the Adriatic broke against the shores of the Lido. The wind had fallen.

"Let us go away," repeated Vittorio.

With a rapid movement Lucio started up: his eyes were red, although he had shed no tears, his face seemed feverish. Both approached the exit, crossed the theatre hall and the vestibule, and found themselves at the door. They went out into the island before the large central avenue, where the tramway runs amongst the trees, gardens, and villas. They had not uttered a single word. When once again they were in the open air before the little square where the tramway stops Lucio said shortly:

"Shall we walk across the island, Vittorio? We shall always find a steamer on the other side to take us back to Venice."

"Let us walk."

They walked in silence along the little garden in course of construction, by villas hardly finished, beneath the young trees, amidst the white electric lamps and the shadows formed between the lamps. Suddenly Lucio Sabini stopped. He leant over the fence of a garden covered with rambler roses and said in a desperate voice:

"Vittorio, I killed Lilian Temple."

"Don't say that, don't say that."

"I committed the crime, Vittorio. I killed her. It is as if I had taken her by the hand, led her up there to the Isola Persa, and pointing to the precipice had said to her—'Throw yourself down.' Thus am I guilty."

"Your reasonable grief blinds you, Lucio."

"No, no," he answered in his desperate voice, "I am not blind, I am not mad. Time has passed over my sorrow: it has become vast and deep like a great, black lake which I have in the depths of my soul. I am neither mad nor blind. I exist, I live, I perform coldly and surely all the acts of life. Nevertheless, I committed a crime, in thrusting Lilian Temple to her death with my very own hands."

"But you are not an assassin, you are not a cruel man," protested Vittorio vehemently. "You could not have done it."

"That is true: I am not an assassin, I am not a cruel man, but every unconscious word of mine, every unconscious act of mine, was a mortal thrust whereby this creature of beauty and purity, whereby this gentle creature should go to her death."

His sharp, despairing voice broke in tenderness. They began to walk again, side by side.

"You loved her then, Lucio?" asked Vittorio affectionately.

"Yes, I loved her very much; but with a sudden and violent love which made me forget my slavery, my galley, and the rough chain that oppresses me. I loved her, but I ought to have been silent and not have lost my peace and made her lose her peace. Here began my sad sin, Vittorio."

"Did she know nothing about you? Did you tell her nothing?"

"Nothing: she knew nothing; she wished to know nothing. Thus she gave me her heart and her life. I ought to have spoken; I ought to have told her everything. I was so madly in love. I was silent and in my silence deceived her. Ah, what a sin! What a terrible sin was that!"

"Did no one warn her?"

"No one. Her soul was mine without a doubt or a thought, with immense certainty."

"But didn't you in all this understand the danger into which you were both running?"

"I didn't understand," replied Lucio Sabini, tragically. "I didn't understand Lilian Temple's love till after her death."

"You knew that she loved you?"

"Yes, but how many others have loved me for a fortnight or a month, afterwards to forget me!"

"Did she not tell you how much she loved you?"

"She told me a little, but I did not understand."

"But did she not show you?"

"She showed me a little, but I didn't understand. My eyes did not know how to read her soul or guess the riddle of her heart."

"But why? Why?"

"Because she was of another country, of another race; because she was another soul different from all the other souls I have known; because I had another heart. Lilian was unknown to me, and I let her die."

Slowly they reached the end of the long avenue that divides the little island and reached the shore of the lagoon, where no majestic hotels and sumptuous villas arise, but old Venetian houses of fishermen, sailors, and gondoliers. Already in the nocturnal gloom lights were to be seen flickering on the turbid waters. Once again Lucio stopped, as if speaking to himself; Vittorio stopped beside him, patiently, affectionately, pitifully.

"Oh, these Englishwomen, these Englishwomen," he said, passing his hand over his forehead. "Even if they are very young, even if they are twenty, as my poor love, as my poor Lilian, they have an interior life of singular intensity, whilst an absolute calm reigns in their faces and actions. They hide sentiments within their souls with a force, power, and ardour which would stupefy and frighten us if we could see within them for an instant. They have an absolute power over themselves and their expressions, a surprising domination over every manifestation. These Englishwomen—Lilian, Lilian mine! They say what they mean, not a word more, they express what they wish to express, no more; they know how to control themselves in the most impetuous moments of life, they know how to encloister themselves when everyone else would expand, and they find their greatest pride in their spiritual isolation, apart from whatever surrounds them, whatever is happening, far-away, closed in their interior life, in their kingdom, in their temple. Their heart is their temple. How often my dear Lilian was silent beside me, and I did not understand how full of things was her silence: how often she would have liked to fall into my arms, but restrained herself and merely smiled: how often she would have liked to cry and not a tear fell from her beautiful eyes; how often I found her cold, indifferent, apart from me, and never perhaps had she been more mine than in that moment. So I understood not how she loved me, because she was of another race, strong, firm, thoughtful, taciturn, faithful; because Lilian had another soul and all her soul escaped me."

They had now passed on to the pier, beneath its wooden roof, to take the steamer which should bring them back to Venice. But no steamer was leaving at that moment, although far-off two large red lights were to be seen approaching rapidly towards the shores of the Lido. The two friends sat down on a wooden bench, in a badly lit corner, and resumed their conversation sotto voce, for other travellers were there, waiting with them for the steamer.

"These Englishwomen," resumed Lucio, speaking as if in a sad dream. "On a day in February there comes to my home, in Florence, Lilian's best friend, her most affectionate guardian, Miss May Ford, she who always accompanied her at St. Moritz: you remember her? And the good old maid stands there, quiet, imperturbable, while she asks an explanation of such a serious matter, that is, why I have deserted Lilian Temple; and she asks me with such simplicity and indifference, almost as if it were a matter of the least importance, and my pain and sorrowful embarrassment caused her wonder. She does not defend Lilian, nor Lilian's love, but is at once content with my reasons. Not that only! When I ask her to use her good influence to make Lilian forget me, she at once promises to do so. If I suggest that she should tell Lilian that I love her, but that I ought not, that I shall always love her, but still I ought to fly from her, Miss Ford declares that she will not give this message because it would make her worse; and finally when I, to show her what an invincible and mortal reason prevents me from loving Lilian, tell her of my adultery, that is of my sad servitude, when I suggest to her that a lady could kill herself if I desert her for Lilian; coldly, without protesting, she agrees to bear this embassy of death. Do you understand, Vittorio? Miss May is tenderly fond of Lilian, knows, perhaps, that Lilian loves me deeply, knows, perhaps, that Lilian will not forget me, that she will never console herself for my desertion, yet through reserve, correctness, moderation, through that proud habit of sentimental modesty, that habit of proud and noble silence which these Englishwomen have, so as not to humiliate me or herself, so as not to humiliate her friend, to conceal from herself, from me, and all whatever there was exalting and agonising in our drama of love, this Englishwoman says nothing to me and to Lilian; only a few—very few—words, the least number of words possible, a single phrase, the one necessary, which she had asked from me to take back to her, and she takes back this single phrase—and it was an embassy of death!"

"And did not Miss Ford even know Lilian's heart and of her love?" murmured Vittorio sadly; "did they confide little or nothing to each other, through respect and modesty?"

"Not even Miss Ford understood. One day in April Lilian disappeared from her home in London. She left not a letter or a note for her father; she did not write to Miss Ford, who at that moment was in Somersetshire—nothing, she disappeared. After ten days, in which Lilian's father placed an advertisement every day in the Times in search of her, to get her to return, the news of her death arrived."

"Probably not even her family understood that it was a question of suicide."

"Yes," murmured Lucio Sabini in a thin voice, "they caused it to be said that it was an accident: perhaps they believed it was an accident."

There was a short silence.

"In my post card, Vittorio, you read but two words, which could be a sorrowful farewell, a sad and tender remembrance. She covered with modesty and silence her passion and her death."

The little steamer was already at the pier, the gangway had been thrown across, fifteen or twenty passengers crossed it and passed into the boat. They scattered here and there on benches along the steamer's sides, which set off again immediately. Lucio and Vittorio went and sat in the front of the boat, at the prow, receiving in their faces the fresh evening breeze, no longer the strong wind of the day which for so many hours had blown from the Adriatic on the shores of the Lido, but the little wind of the lagoon which scarcely ruffled the blackish waters, a breeze that blew from the Canal of the Giudecca and rendered more charming the Venetian evening. With even movement the little steamer threaded its way, cleaving the almost motionless waters; making for the brown, fragrant mass, in the evening light, of the Venetian gardens. Below a bright clear light was spreading itself over the city and waters. Towards San Marco and the Grand Canal the light was completely white, while other lights from palaces, houses, steamers, and gondolas waved and scintillated everywhere, far and near, throwing soft streaks of light and flying gleams over the waters. Silent and tired the two friends remained seated, almost as if they were unaware of the movement, so regular was the going of the little boat; and they were unaware of sounds, as everything around them was peace and shadow. Venice flashed with light that brightened the shadows of the lagoon, the houses, and the sky, and she seemed surrounded by a starry aureole; but they did not even look at the majestic spectacle, as if in the desolation of their souls neither beauty nor poesy of things could attract them. The steamer bent to the right to the stopping-place at the gardens: a louder and duller noise spoke of their arrival, the gangway was thrown across to the pier; a few embarked for Venice, but no one got off. The steamer drew farther away noisily, and resumed its course in the middle of the lagoon.

"Now I am going to find my accomplice," said Lucio in a dry voice.

"Accomplice?"

"Exactly. Beatrice Herz strangely helped me to kill Lilian," added Lucio, with a sneer in the gloom.

"Is she here in Venice?"

"Of course! How could my accomplice be elsewhere? Where I go, she goes; where she goes, I follow. We are inseparable, dearest Victor. Oh, it is touching!"

And a stridulous laugh of irony escaped him.

"Did she know all?" asked Vittorio in a low voice.

"From the first moment," resumed Lucio in a voice become dry and hard. "When I separated myself from Lilian, enamoured as I was, wildly in love, in fact, I had a mad hope, I believed in a generous madness, and told Beatrice Herz everything. Was she not at bottom a woman of heart? Had she not suffered atrociously for love? Had she not a very tender attachment for me? I believed in the superiority of her mind and her magnanimity; I asked for an heroic deed. I had loved and served her for ten years; I had given her my youth, and consumed my most beautiful hours and strength for her; I asked her to dismiss me as a good, loving, and true servant, who had accomplished his cycle of servitude, and at last wished to be free. Humbly and ardently I begged her, with tears in my eyes, turning to her as to a sacred image, to perform the miracle, to give me liberty, to allow me yet to live some years of good and happiness—the few that remained to me for love."

"Well?" asked Vittorio, with sad curiosity.

"I believed Beatrice Herz to be a heroine, capable of a great proof of altruism; I believed her capable of a sentimental miracle. On the contrary, she is a mean little woman, a wretched, egotistical creature, a puppet without thought or heart, in whom my love and my illusion had placed something of the sublime. She is nothing. She refused precisely; she was as arid as pumice-stone; she had not a moment's pity or a single trace of emotion. She sees nothing but herself and her social interests. Instead of giving me my freedom she abandoned herself to such scenes of jealousy, now ferocious, now trivial, from which I escaped each time worn-out and nauseated."

"Had you never the strength to break with her?"

"I hadn't the strength," added Lucio sharply. "Of recent years she has threatened to kill herself when I spoke of leaving her. I always believed her. When it was a question of Lilian her threats became even more violent; twice I had to snatch from her hands a little revolver. But it was really nothing, Vittorio! It wasn't true! I was deceived in the first place, and was deceived afterwards. Beatrice Herz never meant to kill herself for me. I have lived ten years with this woman, and she has succeeded in deceiving me. She is not the sort of woman to kill herself. Even in this I have been disillusioned about her. She is a paltry little woman, nothing else."

"Still she loved you; she confronted dangers for you; she compromised herself and lost her name for you."

"Yes, yes, yes! But adultery with all its waste and lies, adultery with all its corruptions, this adultery prolonged to the boredom and disgust of both, only for womanly vanity, the great vanity of not being deserted, has conquered all her pride."

"You reproach her with her sin!"

"I reproach myself as well as her. I reproach myself as well as her for having sent Lilian Temple to her death."

"Beatrice did not know."

"Beatrice did not deserve to," exclaimed Lucio, again becoming exalted. "She deserved no sacrifice, neither mine nor Lilian's—I keep telling her that."

"You tell her that!"

"Always. Our life is a hell," added Lucio gloomily.

"But doesn't Beatrice try with sweetness...."

"Sweetness? Don't you know that she is jealous of my poor Lilian, of my poor dead one? Don't you know that she still makes scenes of jealousy?"

"Oh!"

"It is so. When I read in the papers the dread news, when I read Lilian's poor, sweet, last words from up there, and understood that she had killed herself, like one possessed I set off by night for the Engadine. Ah, Vittorio, Vittorio, that second journey to ascend there from Chiavenna, what atrocious anxiety all that journey which I made alone, to the Maloja, to St. Moritz, to the Bernina, in a time of perfect solitude, with the snow hardly melted, with St. Moritz still shut up as if dead. The roads were still difficult, as everywhere I followed step for step the tracks of my poor little one who had gone up there, who had lovingly and piously visited all the places where we had been together—step for step after Lilian's tracks until one night I slept in the house of the guide who had seen her die; the man's eyes were full of tears as he told me of her death. Well, when I, full of horror and sorrow, pierced by remorse, unconsoled and unconsolable, came away, whatever do you think Beatrice Herz did? She came to meet me in the Engadine, to snatch me back. She said so—just to snatch me back. I found her in the inn at Chiavenna, whence she was hurrying to ascend to the Engadine. I found her there, and instead of weeping with me, instead of asking pardon of God, she acted a scene of jealousy, and insulted the dead and me."

"Oh, how horrible!"

"Horrible! For that matter I told her a great and simple truth, which made her rave, and always makes her rave; so I repeat it to her."

"What was that?"

"That she had loved me ten years, and did not know how to die for me, and that Lilian Temple had loved me one month and had died for me."

"She must suffer atrociously from all this?"

"Atrociously. I hate Beatrice Herz, and she hates me."

"Yet you remain together?"

"Always. All our lives. Only death, longed-for death, will free us," said Lucio with a sigh.

They gradually drew near to the pier of San Marco; the lagoon was full of gondolas, white and red lights caught the steamer and showed up faces.

"Listen, Vittorio," said Lucio, placing a hand tenderly on his friend's arm, "your love adventure has caused you to suffer much; but to-morrow you will be healed, because you have no remorse, because you have accomplished a lofty duty of honour in destroying your happiness; but you have no remorse. Create none, Vittorio. When at last the beautiful, dazzling figure of Mabel Clarke has vanished from your spirit, love your wife, who is good and sweet, who has been humble and patient, who is fond of you, and attends your good. Love her, not another woman; love her, and never the woman of another. Vittorio, don't be lost as I am lost; don't throw to the monster adultery—your flesh, and senses, and heart. Don't create for yourself remorses which will render your life a place of torment as it is for me."

They reached the Riva degli Schiavoni, the waters were astir with gondolas, and the Riva with people, and full of light and bustle. They went ashore together. They stood silently for a few moments before separating, while around them life was humming, though pale and exhausted they were unaware of it.

"Do you remember Chassellas?" asked Lucio, with singular sweetness.

"Yes, I remember it. I went there with Mabel," replied the other, with repressed emotion.

"Do you know the little Engadine cemetery near there?"

"I know it, we gathered flowers there one day, Mabel and I."

"Lilian is buried there; not far from poor Massimo Granata. I too shall sleep there one day; the soonest possible, Vittorio."

Vittorio, pale and exhausted, looked at him.

"I long to die," said Lucio Sabini.

They said nothing more, but separated.

THE END