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The faded roses shook above his ears. Hermione smiled at him. "He knows all about it," she said. "Well, if we are ever to go to bed " Gaspare looked from her to his padrone. "Buona notte, signora," he said, gravely. "Buona notte, signorino. Buon riposo!" "Buon riposo!" echoed Hermione. "It is blessed to hear that again. I do love the clock, Gaspare."
"The Signora is not safe to-night. The Signora's saint will not look on her to-night." "Put me ashore, Gaspare." "Si, Signore." The boat passed before the façade of the palace. Artois knew the palace well by day. This was the first time he had come to it by night. In daylight it was a small and picturesque ruin washed by the laughing sea, lonely but scarcely sad.
Where was she going? She must go home. She must go to the island. She must go to Vere, to Gaspare, to Emile to her life. Her body and soul revolted from the thought, her outraged body and her outraged soul, which were just beginning to feel their courage, as flesh and nerves begin to feel pain after an operation when the effect of the anaesthetic gradually fades away.
"Did I forget my padrona when she was in England?" the boy replied, his expressive face suddenly hardening and his great eyes glittering with sullen fires. Hermione quickly laid her hand on his. "I was only laughing. You know your padrona trusts you to remember her as she remembers you." Gaspare lifted up her hand quickly, kissed it, and hurried away, lifting his own hand to his eyes.
But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she feared that he might destroy its completeness by trying to share it. "Oh yes," she said. "We all do here; Madre, Gaspare, Monsieur Emile everybody." It was the first time the name of Artois had been mentioned among them that day. The Marchesino's full red lips tightened over his large white teeth.
In the cottage two candles were lit, and the wick was burning in the glass before the Madonna. Outside the cottage door, on the flat bit of ground that faced the wide sea, Salvatore and his daughter, Maurice and Gaspare, were seated round the table finishing their simple meal, for which Salvatore had many times apologized.
The other donkeys tripped on among the stones and vanished, with their attendant boys, Gaspare's friends, round the angle of a great rock, but Gaspare stood still beside his padrona, with his brown hand on her donkey's neck, and Maurice Delarey, following her eyes, looked and listened like a statue of that Mercury to which Artois had compared him. "It's the 'Pastorale," Hermione whispered.
As they drew nearer to the house of the priest, Gaspare pulled himself together with an effort, half-turned on his donkey, and looked round at his padrone. "Signorino!" "Si." "Do you think the signora will be asleep?" "I don't know. I suppose so." The boy looked wise. "I do not think so," he said, firmly. "What at three o'clock in the morning!"
"Wait a minute. Come up-stairs first and see the Signora." The lift ascended. As Artois opened the door of his sitting-room he heard a woman's dress rustle, and Hermione stood before them. "Vere?" she said. She laid her hand on his arm. "Gaspare!" There was a sound of reproach in her voice. She took her hand away from Artois. "Gaspare?" she repeated, interrogatively.
As they went up the steep path he took Salvatore familiarly by the arm. "You are too clever, Salvatore," he said. "You play too well for Gaspare." Salvatore chuckled and handled the five-lire notes voluptuously. "Cci basu li manu!" he said. "Cci basu li manu!" Maurice lay on the big bed in the inner room of the siren's house, under the tiny light that burned before Maria Addolorata.
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