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I walked back to my house. It was very silent, and as I passed up thestairs the servants shrunk back with averted faces, as if they wereafraid to look at me.
'Where is Fabio?' I asked.
A page whispered timidly,--
'In the chapel.'
I turned on my heel, and passed through the rooms, one after another,till I came to the chapel door. I pushed it open and entered. A dimlight came through the painted windows, and I could hardly see. In thecentre were two bodies covered with a cloth, and their heads werelighted by the yellow gleam of candles. At their feet knelt an old man,praying. It was Fabio.
I advanced and drew back the cloth; and I fell on my knees. Giulialooked as if she were sleeping. I had so often leant over her, watchingthe regular heaving of the breast, and sometimes I had thought herfeatures as calm and relaxed as if she were dead. But now the breastwould no more rise and fall, and its wonderful soft whiteness wasdisfigured by a gaping wound. Her eyes were closed and her lips halfparted, and the only difference from life was the fallen jaw. Her facewas very pale; the rich waving hair encircled it as with an aureole.
I looked at him, and he, too, was pale, and his fair hair contrastedwonderfully with hers. He looked so young!
Then, as I knelt there, and the hours passed slowly, I thought of allthat had happened, and I tried to understand. The dim light from thewindow gradually failed, and the candles in the darkness burnt out morebrightly; each was surrounded by a halo of light, and lit up the deadfaces, throwing into deeper night the rest of the chapel.
Little by little I seemed to see into the love of these two which hadbeen so strong, that no ties of honour, faith, or truth had been able toinfluence it. And this is what I imagined, trying to console myself.
* * * * *
When she was sixteen, I thought, they married her to an old man she hadnever seen, and she met her husband's cousin, a boy no older thanherself. And the love started and worked its way. But the boy lived onhis rich cousin's charity; from him he had received a home andprotection and a thousand kindnesses; he loved against his will, but heloved all the same. And she, I thought, had loved like a woman,passionately, thoughtless of honour and truth. In the sensual violenceof her love she had carried him away, and he had yielded. Then withenjoyment had come remorse, and he had torn himself away from thetemptress and fled.
I hardly knew what had happened when she was left alone, pining for herlover. Scandal said evil things.... Had she, too, felt remorse and triedto kill her love, and had the attempt failed? And was it then she flungherself into dissipation to drown her trouble? Perhaps he told her hedid not love her, and she in despair may have thrown herself in the armsof other lovers. But he loved her too strongly to forget her; at last hecould not bear the absence and came back. And again with enjoyment cameremorse, and, ashamed, he fled, hating himself, despising her.
The years passed by, and her husband died. Why did he not come back toher? Had he lost his love and was he afraid? I could not understand....
Then she met me. Ah, I wondered what she felt. Did she love me? Perhapshis long absence had made her partly forget him, and she thought he hadforgotten her. She fell in love with me, and I--I loved her with all myheart. I knew she loved me then; she must have loved me! But he cameback. He may have thought himself cured, he may have said that he couldmeet her coldly and indifferently. Had I not said the same? But as theysaw one another the old love burst out, again it burnt them withconsuming fire, and Giulia hated me because I had made her faithless tothe lover of her heart.
* * * * *
The candles were burning low, throwing strange lights and shadows on thefaces of the dead.
* * * * *
Poor fool! His love was as powerful as ever, but he fought against itwith all the strength of his weak will. She was the Evil One to him;she took his youth from him, his manhood, his honour, his strength; hefelt that her kisses degraded him, and as he rose from her embrace hefelt vile and mean. He vowed never to touch her again, and every time hebroke the vow. But her love was the same as ever--passionate, evenheartless. She cared not if she consumed him as long as she loved him.For her he might ruin his life, he might lose his soul. She cared fornothing; it was all and all for love.
He fled again, and she turned her eyes on me once more. Perhaps she feltsorry for my pain, perhaps she fancied my love would efface theremembrance of him. And we were married. Ah! now that she was dead Icould allow her good intentions. She may have intended to be faithful tome; she may have thought she could truly love and honour me. Perhaps shetried; who knows? But love--love cares not for vows. It was too strongfor her, too strong for him. I do not know whether she sent for him, orwhether he, in the extremity of his passion, came to her; but what hadhappened so often happened again. They threw everything to the winds,and gave themselves over to the love that kills....
The long hours passed as I thought of these things, and the candles wereburnt to their sockets.
At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard Fabio's voice.
'Master, it is nearly morning.'
I stood up, and he added,--
'They put him in the chapel without asking me. You are not angry?'
'They did well!'
He hesitated a moment and then asked,--
'What shall I do?'
I looked at him, not understanding.
'He cannot remain here, and she--she must be buried.'
'Take them to the church, and lay them in the tomb my fatherbuilt--together.'
'The man too?' he asked. 'In your own tomb?'
I sighed and answered sadly,--
'Perhaps he loved her better than I.'
As I spoke I heard a sob at my feet. A man I had not seen took hold ofmy hand and kissed it, and I felt it wet with tears.
'Who are you?' I asked.
'He has been here all the night,' said Fabio.
'He was my master and I loved him,' replied the kneeling figure in abroken voice. 'I thank you that you do not cast him out like a dog.'
I looked at him and felt deep pity for his grief.
'What will you do now?' I asked.
'Alas! now I am a wreck that tosses on the billows without a guide.'
I did not know what to say to him.
'Will you take me as your servant? I will be very faithful.'
'Do you ask me that?' I said. 'Do you not know--'
'Ah, yes! you took the life that he was glad to lose. It was almost akindness; and now you bury him peacefully, and for that I love you. Youowe it to me; you have robbed me of a master, give me another.'
'No, poor friend! I want no servants now. I too am like a wreck thatdrifts aimlessly across the seas. With me, too, it is finished.'
I looked once more at Giulia, and then I replaced the white cloth, andthe faces were covered.
'Bring me my horse, Fabio.'
In a few minutes it was waiting for me.
'Will you have no one to accompany you?' he asked.
'No one!'
Then, as I mounted and arranged the reins in my hand, he said,--
'Where are you going?'
And I despairingly answered,--
'God knows!'
The Making of a Saint Page 41