Three days later the boy died. Costantino was notified immediately of the event. He wept silently and by stealth, trying hard to bear up with fort.i.tude before his companions. When Arnolfo Bellini, the man whose mistress was dying, heard of the Sardinian's misfortune, he fell into a fit of nervous weeping, emitting curious noises like an angry hen, his grey, old-young face doubling up in such grotesque contortions that one of the quarrelsome brothers from the Abruzzi burst out laughing; one of the others leaned across and punched him in the leg with an awl, whereupon the Abruzzese started, ceased laughing, and continued his work without protest.

Costantino, after staring a moment at Bellini in amazement, shook his head and turned to his bench. Silence reigned, and presently the man calmed down.

The low room was filled with the hot, reflected glare from the courtyard, and the overpowering heat drew a sickening odour from the leather and the perspiring hands and feet of the convicts. There were thirteen of them under the surveillance of a tall, red-moustached guard, who never opened his lips. The uniformity of dress, the close-cropped heads and shaven faces, and the general vacuity of expression lent them all a certain mutual resemblance; they might have been brothers, or at least nearly related to one another, and yet, never more than on that particular day, had Costantino felt himself so utterly apart, so wholly out of sympathy with his companions in misery.

He st.i.tched and st.i.tched, bending over the shoe, which rested between his knees in the hollow of his leather ap.r.o.n. From time to time he would pause, examine his work attentively, then go on again drawing the thread through with both hands with a jerk that seemed almost angry.

Yes, one must work, now that the boy was dead. Had he loved him very dearly? Well, he could hardly say; perhaps not so very much. He had only seen him once during that time at Nuoro, through the iron grating of the reception-room, held fast in the arms of his weeping mother. The baby, he remembered, had a little pink face, somewhat rough and scarred, like certain kinds of apricots when they are ripe. His round, violet-coloured eyes shone like a pair of grape seeds from beneath their long fringe of lashes. He had cried the whole time, terrified at the sight of the stern-faced, rigid guards; and grasping the iron bars convulsively with his little red hands.

This was the only memory Costantino had preserved of his son. Years had gone by since then; yet he always imagined him flushed, tearful, with little violet eyes shining out from beneath the dark lashes. But he often pictured the future, when Malthineddu, grown to be big and strong, would drive the wagon, and ride the horse, and sow, and reap, and be the comfort and support of his mother. The prisoner constantly hoped that some day or other he would be cleared, and able to return to his home, but when at times this hope seemed to be more than usually vain, then his thoughts would instantly revert to the boy, and how he would be able to take his place in a way; thus his feeling for him was more a part of his love for Giovanna than that more selfish affection which is the result, often, of habit and propinquity.

Now the boy was dead, and the dream shattered; the will of G.o.d be done.

And Costantino, dwelling upon Giovanna's grief, suffered himself, acutely.

When the _King of Spades_, accordingly, met his friend that day in the shadow of the sun-baked wall, he at once perceived that the other's grief was far more for his wife than for the loss of the child; nevertheless, his method of imparting comfort was to say banteringly: "Why, my dear fellow, if, as you say, the Lord has taken the innocent little soul back to himself, why do you take it so much to heart? It must be for his own good!"

"Why must it?" said Costantino, his head drooping, and both arms hanging down with limp, open palms. "Why must he be better off? Simply because he was poor!"

The _King of Spades_ happened to be in a philosophising mood. He explained, therefore, that poverty was not always a misfortune; nothing of the sort; it might at times be looked upon as a blessing, even an unqualified one!

"There are many worse things than poverty," said he. "Reflect for a moment; your wife will become reconciled."

"Oh! of course; she has the sun," said Costantino, clenching his hands.

"This burning sun, and just how is it going to help her?"

"Pff! pff! pff!" puffed the other, inflating his big, yellow cheeks.

Then he grew thoughtful, and fell to examining the little finger of his right hand with minute attention.

"Suppose," he said suddenly, "your wife were to marry again?"

Costantino did not quite take in what he meant, but his arms stiffened instinctively.

"I hardly should have thought," said he in a hurt tone, "that you would say such a thing as that."

"Pff! pff! pff!" The ex-marshal swelled and puffed meditatively. Then, after a short pause, he began again:

"But listen, my dear fellow, you don't understand. I don't for a moment mean to say that your wife is not a perfectly honest woman; what I do mean is--suppose she were actually to marry some one else? And still you don't understand? Upon my word, this Christian is extraordinarily slow at taking an idea! One would suppose you were free, you are so innocent.

Perhaps, though," he added, "you don't know that people can get divorces nowadays. Any woman whose husband has been sentenced for more than ten years, can be divorced and marry some one else."

Costantino threw his head up for a moment, and his sunken eyes opened round and wide; then the lids dropped again.

"Giovanna would never do it," he said simply.

There was another brief interval of silence.

"Giovanna would not do it," he repeated; yet, even as he p.r.o.nounced the words, he had a strange sensation, as though a frozen steel were slashing his heart in twain; one part was convulsed with agony, while the other shrieked again and again: "She would never do it! she would never do it!" And neither part gave a single thought to the little, dead child.

"She would not do it, she would not do it," reiterated one half of his heart with loud insistence, until, at last, the other was convinced, and they came together again, but only to find that both were now devoured by that torturing pain.

"See here," said the _King of Spades_, "I don't believe she would either. But tell me one thing; now that the child is dead, and now that the mother has nothing more to hope for, from either him or you, would it not, after all, be the very best thing she could do, supposing she had the opportunity? For my own part, I think that if a chance came along for her to marry again, she would be very foolish not to take it."

"Brontu Dejas!" said Costantino to himself. But he only repeated: "No, she would not do it."

"But you are a Christian, my friend; if she were to do it, would she not be in the right?"

"But I am going back some day."

"How is she to know that?"

"Why, I have told her so all along, and I shall never cease telling her so."

The _King of Spades_ had a strong inclination to laugh, but he restrained himself, feeling quite ashamed of the impulse. Presently he murmured, as though in answer to some inward question: "It is all utter foolishness."

"Yes, of course," said Costantino. But all the time, he was thinking of Brontu Dejas, of his house with the portico, of his _tancas_ and his flocks; and then of Giovanna's poverty. Alas! the knife was cutting deep into his heart now.

That very night he wrote a long letter to Giovanna, comforting her, and a.s.suring her of his unshaken faith in the divine mercy. "It may be," he wrote, in the simple goodness of his heart, "that G.o.d wishes to prove us still further, and so has taken from us the offspring that we conceived in sin; may his will be done! But now, a presentiment tells me that the hour of my restoration to liberty is at hand." He considered long whether or no to tell her of the _dreadful thing_ hinted at by the ex-marshal, and thought himself quite shrewd and cunning when he decided it would be better to let her think that he did not so much as know of the existence of that infernal law.

His letter despatched, he felt more tranquil. But a little worm had begun to gnaw and gnaw in his brain. The ex-marshal, moreover, from that day on, with a pity that was heartless in its operations, never ceased to instil the subtle poison into his veins. He must become accustomed to the idea, thought this diplomatist to himself, else the poor, simple soul will die of heartbreak. There were times, however, when he thought that it might be better, after all, to let him die, and have done with it. Then, remembering all his promises about obtaining a pardon, he would pretend to himself that he was really going to do this, and continue the torture so that his victim might survive the shock when news of the divorce actually came. He had no doubt that his friend's wife was seriously contemplating the step, and it made him angry to hear Costantino speak affectionately of her.

"My dear fellow," said he one October day, puffing as usual, "you don't know women. Empty jugs, that's what they are; nothing but empty jugs! I was once engaged to be married myself. You can hardly believe it? Well, I can hardly believe it either. What then? Nothing, except that she betrayed me before I had even married her, and--that you irritate me beyond measure. Here is your wife in an altogether different situation; she is young and poor, and has blood in her veins--she has blood in her veins, I suppose, hasn't she? Well, if this Dejas fellow wants her to marry him, I say she would be a great goose not to do it."

"Dejas! Why--what--who told you?" stammered Costantino in amazement.

"Oh! didn't you tell me yourself?"

Costantino thought he most certainly had not, but then his mind had been in such a confused state for some time back--but merciful G.o.d! Dear San Costantino! How had he ever come to do such a thing? What had made him utter that man's name?

"Well, then," he burst out; "yes, I am afraid of him! He courted her before we were married; he wanted her himself. Ugh! he's a drunkard, and as weak as mud. No, no; she could never do anything so horrible! For pity's sake, let's talk of something else."

So they did talk of something else, still in the Sardinian dialect, so as not to be understood by the other prisoners. They talked of the consumptive student, who was drawing visibly nearer to the door of the other world; of Arnolfo Bellini, who began to sob whenever his eye fell on the dying man; of the _Delegate_, whom they could see pacing back and forth by the fountain; of the magpie, who was growing feeble, and losing all his feathers, from old age.

Gossip, envy, hatred, identical interests, cowardice, raillery, fear--such were the bonds which united or kept apart the different members of the little community--prisoners, guards, and officials alike.

To Costantino they were all equally objects of indifference; he, the _Delegate_, and the student seeming to live apart in a little world of their own, with the ex-marshal--the pivot about which every detail in the prisoners' lives seemed to revolve; he, meanwhile, appearing to be as superior as he was necessary to them all.

Many envied the friendly intercourse existing between Costantino and him, and frequently the former would be implored to use his influence with the _King of Spades_ to procure some favour. He merely shrugged his shoulders on such occasions, though, when they offered him money, as sometimes happened, he was sorely tempted to take it, so intense was his longing to be able to support Giovanna; he had no other idea. The _King of Spades_, with his eternal insinuations that cut like knives, was becoming more and more hateful to him. One day they actually quarrelled, and for some time did not speak to one another. But Costantino could not stand it; he felt as though he should suffocate, as though he had been shut up in a cell, and cut off from all communication with the outer world. He soon apologised and begged for a reconciliation.

The autumn drew on; the air grew cool, and the sky became a delicate, velvety blue, distant, unreal, dreamlike. Sometimes the breeze would waft a perfume of ripening fruit into the prison enclosure.

Costantino was less acutely miserable, but he had sunk into a state of settled melancholy; he grew thinner and thinner, and deprived himself continually of things which he stood in need of in order to have more money to send to Giovanna. The other prisoners all received presents of some sort from their friends and relatives; he alone denied himself even the little pittance he was able to earn.

"I don't understand it," said the ex-marshal to him one day. "Your complexion is pink and you look younger than you did when you came, and yet you are almost transparent."

Sometimes Costantino would flush violently, and the blood would rush to his head; then he would be utterly prostrated, and in his weakness he would suffer more from homesickness than he had done even in the first year of his imprisonment. He would see before him the boundless sweep of the uplands, sleeping in the autumnal haze, glowing and yellow beneath the crystal sky; he would get the breath of the vineyards, the scent of such late-maturing fruits as flourish in that land of flocks and beehives; images would rise before him of the foxes and hares, the wild birds and cattle, the hedges thick with blackberries, all the hundred and one natural objects which had const.i.tuted the sole element of enjoyment in his otherwise miserable and barren childhood. Then his thoughts would turn to his uncle, the cruel old Vulture who, having tormented him in his lifetime, seemed able to torment him still. An impulse of bitter hatred would rise up in his heart, only to be repressed, on remembering that he was dead, and succeeded by a prayer for the murdered man's soul.

There was no one else whom he was even tempted to hate, no one at all; not even the real murderer, or Brontu Dejas--who, in fact, had as yet given him no cause for complaint--or the _King of Spades_, though he subjected him to this continual martyrdom. Indeed, it hardly seemed as though he had sufficient strength effectually to hate any one. A feeling of gentle melancholy pervaded him, a sort of numbness like that of a person about to fall asleep; his only sensation was one of tender, pitiful, pa.s.sionless love; as tranquil, as mild and all-embracing as an autumnal sky, and having for its one object--Giovanna. She was a part of the love itself, and waking or sleeping, he thought only of her, only of her, only of her.

As time went on this love became more and more engrossing; she came to represent the far-off home, family, liberty--life itself. All, all, was comprehended in her: hope, faith, endurance, peace, the very love of life! She became his soul.

When the inexorable _King of Spades_ threatened him with _that horrible thing_, he did not know it, but it was the death of his soul that he was holding over him. For the certainty of not losing Giovanna, Costantino would gladly have agreed to pa.s.s forty years in prison; and, at the same time, he panted for his freedom precisely in order that he might not lose her.