But who was she, the woman that so powerfully attracted Cesare as to make him forget his child! The Contessa d'Alemagna, perhaps. Yes, it must be she--that dark lady, with the blue eyes, the wonderful toilets, the youthful colour, the vivacious manner; she was indeed an irresistible enchantress. Poor Anna! During Cesare's absence she learned all the phases of hope and fear, of torturing jealousy, of wretched loneliness. He did not come he did not come; perhaps he would never come again. What had he said? That he detested ingratitude, that he despised people who were ungrateful. Ungrateful--she! But how could he expect her to thank him for wishing to marry her to Luigi Caracciolo? Was she really ungrateful?
Three or four times she had written to him, begging him to come; now a simple little note; now a long passionate letter, full of contradictions, wherein, to be sure, the word "love" never appeared, but where it could be read between the lines; now a frank, short love-letter: but each in turn had struck her as worse than the others, as more trivial, more ineffectual; and she had ended by tearing them to pieces.
It was she who had put it into Stella Martini's head to send to inquire how he was; his curt response to that inquiry struck a chill to her heart: he was in town, and he was well. Then she would go out for long walks with Stella, in the hope of meeting him.
One afternoon in February, at last, she did meet him, thus, in the street.
"It's a long while since we have seen you," said Stella Martini.
"You haven't called for many days," said Anna, looking into his eyes.
"I have counted them," she said, turning away her head, as if to look at the sea.
"I'm sure that's a great compliment." And he bowed gallantly.
"It wasn't a compliment. It was affection, it was gratitude."
"Good. I see you're in a better frame of mind. I'll call to-morrow."
When he had left them, Anna and Stella went on towards the Mergellina, walking more rapidly than before. Anna kept looking at the sea, with a slight smile upon her lips, a new colour in her cheeks. She buried her hands in her muff. Had he not pressed one of those hands at parting with her? Now and then she would look backwards, as if expecting to see him again; it was the hour of the promenade. She did see him again, indeed; but this time he was in a carriage, a smart trap of the Viennese pattern, driven dashingly by Luigi Caracciolo.