When her guests had left, the Marchesa rang the bell for the rosary, which they had not been able to repeat at the usual hour. The rosary was a living thing in Casa Maironi, having its roots in the Marchesa's past sins, and its growth was steady, for it was always putting forth fresh _Aves_ and _Glorias_, as the old lady became more advanced in years, and saw her own disgusting skull looming before her, ever more distinct, ever more apparent. Consequently her rosary was extremely long. The sweet peccadillos of her protracted youth did not trouble her conscience over-much, but there were certain other transgressions which could be computed in pounds, shillings, and pence, transgressions never properly confessed and therefore never properly forgiven, and these caused her great uneasiness; an uneasiness she was continually trying to stifle by means of rosaries, but which was forever bursting out afresh. While she was praying to the Great Creditor for the remission of her debts, she would feel perfect confidence in His power to remit them all, but later there would once more loom before her mind's eye the sorrowful faces of the lesser creditors, bringing with them doubts concerning the pardon received, and thus her avarice and her pride were ever struggling against the fear of a perpetual debtor's prison beyond the tomb.
When they had recited the prayers for the conversion of sinners, and those for the healing of the sick, and were about to begin the _De Profundis_, she announced three new _Ave Marias_, without, however, stating for what purpose. The scullery maid, a simple peasant from Cressogno, supposed these _Ave Marias_ were intended for the unhappy family at Oria, and recited them with extreme fervour. The scullery-maid's _Aves_ clashed with and routed those of her mistress, which were asking for sleep, and rest for the nerves and conscience. As to the _Ave Marias_ of all the others, they were repeated in the common hope that they might not remain definitely attached to the rosary, as too often happened. In short, no one succeeded in checking the onward march of the ghost.
Towards eleven o'clock the Marchesa retired. She drank some citron-water, and the maid having begun to talk of Oria and of Don Franco, who, it was whispered, had returned, she ordered her to be silent. She was certainly affected. She saw continually before her eyes the image of Maria as she had once seen her when passing in her gondola below the little Gilardoni villa; a slight figure in a white apron, with long hair and bare arms, and strangely like a child of her own who had died when only three. Did she feel affection or pity? She herself could not tell what she felt. Perhaps it was only irritation and terror at not being able to rid herself of an annoying image; perhaps it was fear at the thought that if a certain great sin had not been committed long ago, if Marchese Franco's will had not been burnt, the child would not have died.