A murmur of approval showed what the others thought.
'But think, Bartolomeo,' said Checco, 'you are grey-headed; you are not so very far from the tomb; if you killed this man, what of afterwards?'
'I swear to you, Checco, that you would be a minister of God's vengeance. Has he not madly oppressed the people? What right has he more than another? Through him men and women and children have died of want; unhappiness and misery have gone through the land—and all the while he has been eating and drinking and making merry.'
'Make up your mind, Checco. You must give way to us!' said Matteo. 'Girolamo has failed in every way. On the score of honesty and justice he must die. And to save us he must die.'
'You drive me mad,' said Checco. 'All of you are against me. You are right in all you say, but I cannot—oh God, I cannot!'
Bartolomeo was going to speak again, but Checco interrupted him.
'No, no, for Heaven's sake, say nothing more. Leave me alone. I want to be quiet and think.'
IX
In the evening at ten I went to the Palazzo Aste. The servant who let me in told me that Donna Giulia was at her father's, and he did not know when she would be back. I was intensely disappointed. I had been looking forward all day to seeing her, for the time in church had been so short.... The servant looked at me as if expecting me to go away, and I hesitated; but then I had such a desire to see her that I told him I would wait.
I was shown into the room I already knew so well, and I sat down in Giulia's chair. I rested my head on the cushions which had pressed against her beautiful hair, her cheek; and I inhaled the fragrance which they had left behind them.
How long she was! Why did she not come?
I thought of her sitting there. In my mind I saw the beautiful, soft brown eyes, the red lips; her mouth was exquisite, very delicately shaped, with wonderful curves. It was for such a mouth as hers that the simile of Cupid's bow had been invented.
I heard a noise below, and I went to the door to listen. My heart beat violently, but, alas! it was not she, and, bitterly disappointed, I returned to the chair. I thought I had been waiting hours, and every hour seemed a day. Would she never come?
At last! The door opened, and she came in—so beautiful. She gave me both her hands.
'I am sorry you have had to wait,' she said, 'but I could not help it.'
'I would wait a hundred years to see you for an hour.'
She sat down, and I lay at her feet.
'Tell me,' she said, 'all that has happened to-day.'
I did as she asked; and as I gave my story, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed. I don't know what came over me; I felt a sensation of swooning, and at the same time I caught for breath. And I had a sudden impulse to take her in my arms and kiss her many times.
'How lovely you are!' I said, raising myself to her side.
She did not answer, but looked at me, smiling. Her eyes glistened with tears, her bosom heaved.
'Giulia!'
I put my arm round her, and took her hands in mine.
'Giulia, I love you!'
She bent over to me, and put forward her face; and then—then I took her in my arms and covered her mouth with kisses. Oh God! I was mad, I had never tasted such happiness before. Her beautiful mouth, it was so soft, so small, I gasped in the agony of my happiness. If I could only have died then!
Giulia! Giulia!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The cock crew, and the night seemed to fade away into greyness. The first light of dawn broke through the windows, and I pressed my love to my heart in one last kiss.
'Not yet,' she said; 'I love you.'
I could not speak; I kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her breasts.
'Don't go,' she said.
'My love!'
At last I tore myself away, and as I gave her the last kiss of all, she whispered,—
'Come soon.'
And I replied,—
'To-night!'
I walked through the grey streets of Forli, wondering at my happiness; it was too great to realise. It seemed absurd that I, a poor, commonplace man, should be chosen out for this ecstasy of bliss. I had been buffeted about the world, an exile, wandering here and there in search of a captain under whom to serve. I had had loves before, but common, grotesque things—not like this, pure and heavenly. With my other loves I had often felt a certain ugliness about them; they had seemed sordid and vulgar; but this was so pure, so clean! She was so saintly and innocent. Oh, it was good! And I laughed at myself for thinking I was not in love with her. I had loved her always; when it began I did not know ... and I did not care; all that interested me now was to think of myself, loving and beloved. I was not worthy of her; she was so good, so kind, and I a poor, mean wretch. I felt her a goddess, and I could have knelt down and worshipped her.
I walked through the streets of Forli with swinging steps; I breathed in the morning air, and felt so strong, and well, and young. Everything was beautiful—all life! The grey walls enchanted me; the sombre carvings of the churches; the market women, gaily dressed, entering the town laden with baskets of many-coloured fruit. They gave me greeting, and I answered with a laughing heart. How kind they were! Indeed, my heart was so full of love that it welled over and covered everything and everybody, so that I felt a strange, hearty kindness to all around me. I loved mankind!
X
When I got home, I threw myself on my bed and enjoyed a delightful sleep, and when I awoke felt cool and fresh, and very happy.
'What is the matter with you?' asked Matteo.
'I am rather contented with myself,' I said.
'Then, if you want to make other people contented, you had better come with me to Donna Claudia.'
'The beautiful Claudia?'
'The same!'
'But can we venture in the enemy's camp?'
'That is exactly why I want you to come. The idea is to take no notice of the events of yesterday, and that we should all go about as if nothing had happened.'
'But Messer Piacentini will not be very glad to see us.'
'He will be grinding his teeth, and inwardly spitting fire; but he will take us to his arms and embrace us, and try to make us believe he loves us with the most Christian affection.'
'Very well; come on!'
Donna Claudia, at all events, was delighted to see us, and she began making eyes and sighing, and putting her hand to her bosom in the most affecting manner.
'Why have you not been to see me, Messer Filippo?' she asked.
'Indeed, madam, I was afraid of being intrusive.'
'Ah,' she said, with a sweeping glance, 'how could you be! No, there was another reason for your absence. Alas!'
'I dared not face those lustrous eyes.'
She turned them full on me, and then turned them up, Madonna-wise, showing the whites.
'Are they so cruel, do you think?'
'They are