Desperately the mother took him in her arms, pressed him to herself and kissed him, as if to defend him against life itself.
“You are good, you are noble, you are loyal, and you will not do this.”
“I used to be that!” cried the son desolately; “and I deserved the love of Maria Guasco; and I should have deserved that Vittoria Fiore knew how to love me and become happy with me and in my dedication. But all has been useless; I have been broken against this subtle, pallid, silent and cold shadow of a woman. If I want to live I must be perverse and dissolute.”
“There remains nothing else for me, mamma,” he repeated desolately.
“Dress me quickly,” said Maria to Chiara distractedly.
Chiara gave a glance towards the balcony, concealed by the white lace curtains, but said not a word. The dress for the races at Tor di Quinto was on the bed, a costume of bright cream voile, trimmed with a sort of silver lace, with a large belt of silver cloth, and a large black hat covered with a black feather held by an antique silver buckle, together with a very fine black veil, which surrounded it like a light cloud. Chiara accomplished the work of dressing her beloved mistress rapidly, without talking. Maria seemed wrapped in her thoughts, and mechanically performed the successive acts by which a lady dresses herself.
“Give me the turquoise necklace,” she said, still distractedly.
Chiara went to the cupboard where the jewels were kept, and took a bizarre necklace, in peculiar twisted gold, embellished with large turquoises.
Maria fixed it, still mechanically. Then her eyes, wandering indifferently and uncertainly, stopped at the balcony. She opened them wide, as if at an unexpected spectacle, and listened.
“It is raining in torrents,” she said to Chiara, surprised and gloomily.
“Dreadfully,” replied Chiara, with a sigh.
Maria’s hands, which were fixing her hat, fell back as if tired.
“Then why have I dressed?” she asked, as if to herself, with an accent of weariness and annoyance.
“Perhaps it will stop raining in a little while,” said the faithful creature timidly.
“You’ll see, it will rain the whole day!” exclaimed Maria, discouraged.
She threw herself into a chair as if a sudden fatigue had mastered her. Her face had the almost infantile sadness of disillusion, and with the sadness flowed the sense of a tedium ever greater, while the pattering rain beat upon the pavement, the marble balcony, and the windows. Chiara retired discreetly at a call from another part, and in a few minutes reappeared.