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He stared across the watercourse towards the village, seeking two figures, and he was conscious now of two feelings that fought within him, of two desires: a desire that Hermione should not come, and a desire that she should come. He wanted, he even longed, to have his evening with Maddalena. Yet he wanted Hermione to get out of the train when Gaspare told her that he Maurice was at San Felice.
Lucrezia's depression was easily comprehensible. The change in her husband she accounted for; but now here was Gaspare looking dismal! "I must cheer them all up," she thought to herself. "This beautiful time mustn't end dismally." And then she thought of the inevitable departure. Was Maurice looking forward to it, desiring it? He had spoken that day as if he wished to be off.
He was watching Gaspare, fascinated, completely under the spell of the dance. The blood was beginning to boil in his veins, warm blood of the south that he had never before felt in his body. Artois had spoken to Hermione of "the call of the blood." Maurice began to hear it now, to long to obey it.
"Si, Signora," he said, in a low voice. He was now looking at the floor. His arms were resting on his knees, and his hands hung down touching each other. "It seems to me that I never noticed the thing between us until until Ruffo came to the island." "Ruffo?" "Yes, Gaspare, Ruffo." She spoke with increasing energy and determination, still combating her still formless fear.
Even with her Gaspare would only speak freely of things when he chose. At other times he was calmly mute. He wrapped himself in a cloud. She wondered whether he had ever given Ruffo any hints or instructions as to suitable conduct when with her.
"Gaspare!" The woman in the chair whispered to him. He took no notice. "Gaspare!" She got up and crossed over to the boy, and took one of his hands. "It's no use," she said. "Perhaps he is happy." Then the boy began to cry passionately. Tears poured out of his eyes while he held his padrona's hand. The doctor got up. "He is dead, signora," he said. "We knew it," Hermione replied.
But he concealed his fear. "Perhaps you had better go, Vere," he said, at length. "But if she does not answer, don't try the door. Don't knock. Just speak. You will find the best words." "Yes. I'll try I'll try." Gaspare opened the door. Giulia was sobbing outside. Her pride and dignity were lacerated by Gaspare's action. "Giulia, never mind! Don't cry! Gaspare didn't mean "
He made her sit down. He stood by her. "What shall we do, Gaspare? What shall we do?" She looked up at him, demanding counsel. She put out her hands again and touched his arm. His Padroncina she at least still loved, still trusted him. "Signorina," he said, "we can't do anything." His voice was fatalistic. "But what is it? Is is " A frightful question was trembling on her lips.
When they were getting into the boat at Santa Lucia she said, with none of her usual simplicity and self-possession, but like one making an effort which was repugnant: "I'm very sorry about last night, Gaspare." "It doesn't matter, Signorina." "Did you get back very late?" "I don't know, Signora. I did not look at the hour." She looked away from him and out to sea.
"No, to the Scoglio di Frisio. Pay the boatman this, Gaspare. Good-night, Andrea." "Good-night, Signora." Gaspare handed the man his money, and at once the boat set out on its return to Posilipo. Hermione stood at the water's edge watching its departure. It passed below the Saint, and the gleam of his light fell upon it for a moment.
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