Uncle Piero had gone to bed early, and Luisa was waiting for Franco in the little salon with Maria, whom she had kept up that her father might see something of her this last night. Poor little Signorina Missipip had very soon grown weary, and had begun to open wide her little mouth, and a.s.sume a tearful expression, asking in a small and pitiful voice: "When is papa coming?" But she possessed a mamma who was unrivalled in consoling the afflicted. Now it was some time since Signorina Missipip had owned a pair of whole little shoes: and little shoes, even in Valsolda, cost money. Not much money, it is true, but what is to be done when you have hardly any? However, this unique mamma was also unrivalled in shoeing those who were shoeless. The very day before, Luisa, in searching for a piece of rope in the attic, had found a boot which had belonged to her grandfather, buried beneath a heap of rubbish, of empty boxes and broken chairs. She had put it in water to soften, and had borrowed a shoemaker's knife, an awl, and shears. She now took the venerable boot, that frightened Maria, and placed it on the table. "Now we will recite its funeral oration," said she, with that liveliness she could a.s.sume at will, and of which even mortal anguish could not rob her, if she deemed it necessary to be lively. "But first you must ask your great-grandfather's permission to take his boot." She made Maria clasp her hands, and recite the following jingle, her eyes comically raised to the ceiling.

Great granddad of mine Who to heav'n did climb, This boot, to you useless Pray give to this princess, Who longs in vain For slippers twain, And throws you a kiss, The pert little Miss, Which she begs you to put On the sole of your foot.

Then followed a somewhat irreverent fancy, one of many such born in Luisa's brain--a strange story of the little angel who polishes the boots in heaven, and who one day let great-grandfather's boot fall to the earth while attempting to grab a bit of golden bread he had been forbidden to touch. Maria brightened visibly; she laughed and interrupted her mother with a hundred questions concerning the other boot that was still in heaven. What would her great-grandfather do with that? Her mother replied that he would apply it from behind to the Emperor of Austria, and push him out of heaven with it, if he chanced to meet him there.

Just at that moment Franco entered.

Luisa at once saw signs of storm on his brow and in his eyes.

"Well?" she questioned. Franco answered shortly: "Put Maria to bed."

Luisa observed that she had kept the child up waiting for him, that she might spend a little time with him. "I tell you to put her to bed!"

Franco said, so harshly that Maria began to cry. Luisa flushed, but was silent. Lighting a candle she took the child in her arms and silently held her up that her father might give her a kiss. He did so coldly, and then Luisa carried her away. Franco did not follow her. The sight of the boot irritated him, and he threw it upon the floor. Then he sat down, planted his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands.

The bitter thought that Luisa was Gilardoni's accomplice had immediately flashed into his mind while Pasotti was talking, and with it there came also the recollection of that "Why be silent?" of that "Enough!" and of the child's story. He felt as if he had a whirlwind within him, in which this idea was being continually caught up and whirled away, to reappear again farther down, ever nearer the heart.

"Well?" Luisa once more asked, as she entered the room. Franco looked at her a moment in silence, scrutinising her closely. Then he rose and seized her hands. "Tell me if you know anything?" said he. She guessed his meaning, but that look and manner offended her. "What do you mean?"

she exclaimed, her face aflame. "Why do you ask in that way?" "Ah! you do know!" cried Franco flinging away her hands, and raising his arms with a despairing gesture.

She foresaw what was coming--his suspicion of her complicity with Gilardoni, her denial, and the mortal irremediable offence Franco would be offering her if, in his wrath, he refused to trust her word, and she clasped her hands in terror. "No, Franco! No, Franco!" she murmured softly, and threw her arms about his neck, striving to close his lips with kisses. But he misunderstood her, believed she was seeking forgiveness, and pushed her aside. "I know! Yes, I know!" she cried, once more casting herself pa.s.sionately upon his breast. "But I found out afterwards, when it was already done, and I was as indignant as you are, even more indignant!" But Franco was too anxious to give vent to his feelings, too anxious to offend. "How can I know you are speaking the truth?" he exclaimed. She started back with a cry, and then once more coming a step nearer, she held out her arms to him. "No, no!" she entreated in agony, "Tell me you believe me! Tell me so now, for if you do not say so, you don't know, you can't realise what will happen!"

"What is it I can't realise?"

"You don't know me as I am, for though I may love you still, I can never again be a wife to you, and though I may suffer deeply, I shall never change, never again. Do you realise what that means, _never again_?"

He drew her slender, trembling figure towards him, pressed her hands as if to crush them, and said, in a stifled voice: "I will believe you!

Indeed I will believe you!" But Luisa, gazing at him through her tears, was not satisfied. "I _will_ believe you?" she said. "I _will_ believe you?"

"I do believe you, I do believe you!"

Indeed he did believe her; but where there is anger there is always pride as well. He did not wish to surrender entirely, and at once, and his tone was rather condescending than convinced. Both were silent, holding each other's hands, and then with a slow, almost imperceptible movement they began to draw apart. It was Luisa who at last gently drew away completely. She felt this silence must be broken; he could find no glowing words, and cold words she would not speak, so she began to tell him how she had heard of the unfortunate journey to Lodi from Gilardoni himself. Seated at the table opposite her husband, she spoke in a calm voice that was not precisely cold, but rather grieved. While she was relating the Professor's disclosures Franco again took fire, and often interrupted her. "And did you not say that to him?--And did you not say this to him?--Did you tell him he was a fool?--Did you not call him an a.s.s?" At first Luisa ignored these exclamations, but finally she protested. She had already said that Gilardoni's blunder had filled her with indignation, but now it would almost seem as if her husband doubted this. Franco was reduced to unwilling silence.

Her story finished, he once more stormed against that blockhead of a philosopher, and Luisa was moved to take his part. After all he was their friend; he had indeed made a terrible mistake, but with the best of intentions. Where were all Franco's maxims about charity, and forgiving injuries, if he was not willing to forgive one whose only wish had been to benefit him? And here thoughts came to her which she did not utter. She reflected that Franco was ready enough to forgive great things when there was glory and sometimes even folly in forgiving, while he would not now forgive a slight offence when there were the best of reasons for doing so. When she spoke of charity Franco became exasperated; he did not venture to say he felt he did not deserve a similar attack, but returned the blow somewhat roughly. "Ah! Indeed!" he exclaimed, with a reticence that was full of insinuations. "So you defend him! Oh, of course!"

Luisa's shoulders twitched nervously, but she held her peace.

"And why did you not speak!" Franco continued. "Why did you not tell me everything at once?"

"Because when I reproached Gilardoni he entreated me not to tell.

Besides, I thought--and I was perfectly correct--that the thing being done, it was useless to cause you such great annoyance. The last day of the year, when you were so angry, I wished to tell you, to relate all Gilardoni had confided to me. Do you remember? But you absolutely refused to listen. I did not insist, especially as Gilardoni had told your grandmother we knew nothing about the matter."

"She did not believe him. Naturally!"

"And what good would it have done if I had spoken? As it is, Pasotti must have seen plainly that you knew nothing."

Franco did not answer. Then Luisa asked him to repeat the conversation to her, and she listened to his recital with breathless attention. She guessed, her intuition sharpened by hatred, that if Franco had accepted the proffered position, a further condition would have been imposed: separation from her uncle, from an official who had been dismissed from service for political reasons. "Certainly," she said, "she would have demanded this also. _Canaille!_" Her husband started, as if he also had been cut to the quick by that lash. "Steady," said he. "Be careful of your expressions! In the first place, that is only a supposition of yours, and then----"

"Only a supposition? And how about the rest? How about the cowardly action she proposed to you?"

Franco, who had answered Pasotti with such violence, now answered his wife weakly.

"Yes, yes, yes! But after all----"

It was her turn to be violent now. The idea that his grandmother should dare propose that they forsake the uncle drove her nearly out of her mind. "You will at least acknowledge this," she cried, "that she deserves no mercy? My G.o.d! And to think that will still exists!"

"Oh!" Franco exclaimed. "Are we to begin over again?"

"_Let us begin over again!_ Have you any right to demand that I shall neither think nor feel save in such a way as is pleasing to you? Did I obey you I should be cowardly, I should deserve to become a slave. And I will be neither cowardly nor a slave!"

The rebel he had suspected, even felt at times lurking behind the loving woman, the creature possessed of an intellect intensely proud, and stronger than love, whom he had never succeeded in conquering completely, now stood before him, quivering in the consciousness of her rebellion.

"Well, well!" said Franco, as if speaking to himself, "so you would be cowardly, would be a slave? Do you at least reflect that I am going away to-morrow?"

"Do not go! Stay here! Carry out your grandfather's wishes. Remember what you told me concerning the origin of the Maironi wealth. Give it all back to the Ospitale Maggiore. See that justice is done!"

"No," Franco retorted. "These are idle dreams. The end does not justify the means. The real end with you is to strike my grandmother. This talk of the Ospitale is simply a means of justifying the blow. No, I will never make use of that will. I declared as much to Pasotti, in such strong language that should I ever change, I should deserve to be spit upon. I shall certainly leave to-morrow."

A long silence followed, then the dialogue was once more resumed, but the two voices were cold and sad as if now some dead thing lay in the heart of either.

"Do you realise," said Franco, "that I should be dishonouring my own father?"

"In what way?"

"In the first place by the outrageous nature of the terms in which the doc.u.ment is couched, and then by implying my father's complicity in the suppression of the will. But then you don't understand these matters.

And, after all, what do you care?"

"But there is no need to speak of suppression. It is quite possible the will was never found."

Another silence. Even the tallow candle that was burning on the table had a lugubrious look. Luisa rose, picked up the great-grandfather's boot, and prepared to begin her work. Franco went to the window and pressed his forehead against the gla.s.s. He remained there some time, absorbed in contemplation of the shadows of night. Presently he said softly, without turning his head:

"Never, never has your soul been wholly mine."

No answer.

Then he faced about and asked his wife in a tone entirely free from anger, and with that ineffable gentleness which was his in moments of moral or physical depression, if, since the very beginning of their union, he had ever failed her in any way. An almost inaudible "No" was the answer.

"Then perhaps you did not love me as I believed?"

"No, no, no!"

Franco was not sure he had understood correctly, and repeated:

"You did not love me?"

"Yes, yes! So dearly!"

His spirits began to revive, and a shade of severity returned to his voice.