It was at this point that the guard had come, and called Costantino away, and the latter, who had pa.s.sed a sleepless night, had opened his drowsy eyes, turned pale, and leaped to his feet. "Who wants me?" he had asked, and then he had followed the guard.

He was taken to a dingy room, filled with shelves of dusty papers. The dirty windows were closed; beyond them, through a red grating, could be seen the sky--dull and grey, as though it too were dirty. A man was seated writing, at a tall, dusty desk, piled so high with papers that between the papers and the dust the man himself could hardly be seen. As the prisoner entered he raised a flushed face, the small chin completely hidden by a heavy, blond moustache. He fixed a pair of big, round, dull-blue eyes upon Costantino, but apparently without seeing him, for he dropped them again immediately, and went on writing.

Costantino, who had seen this man before, stood waiting, his heart thumping in his breast. Mechanically his thoughts dwelt upon the description of the water-phantoms he had just been listening to, and the voice saying: "calf"; he wondered vaguely if one would be justified in feeling angry at that. Not a sound broke the stillness of the room, except the scratch, scratch, of the pen, as it travelled over the coa.r.s.e paper. Again the pale blue eyes were fixed upon the prisoner, and again lowered to the sheet. Costantino, trembling and unnerved, gazed desperately around the room. Still the man wrote on. The prisoner could feel his heart beating furiously; a thousand dark fancies, hideous, terrifying, rushed through his brain, like clouds driven before an angry tempest. And still the man wrote on, and on. Suddenly, without warning, all the dark fancies vanished,--dispersed and swallowed up, as it were, in a single glorious flood of light. A thought, so dazzling and beautiful as almost to be painful, shot into his mind. "They have discovered that I am innocent!"

The idea did not remain for long, but it left behind it a vague, tremulous light.

The man was still writing, and did not stop as he presently said in a loud, hard voice: "You are named----?"

"Costantino Ledda."

"Where from?"

"Orlei, in Sardinia, Province of Sa.s.sari."

"Very good."

Silence. The man wrote a little while longer; then suddenly he dug his pen into the paper, raised his red face, and fastened his round, expressionless eyes upon the man standing before him. Costantino's own eyes dropped.

"Very good. Have you a wife?"

"Yes."

"Any children?"

"We had one, but he died."

"Are you fond of your wife?"

"Yes," replied Costantino, and raised his terrified eyes as far as the fat, red hand resting on the desk, with a ring on one finger having a purple stone; and between the thumb and forefinger, the stiff, black point of the pen. Not knowing where to fix his perplexed gaze, Costantino followed the movements of this pen, conscious all the while only of a feeling of supreme agony, as when one dreams that he is about to be swallowed up in a cataclysm.

The hard voice was speaking again, in a low, measured tone.

"You know, of course, that your wife's whole life has been ruined by your fault. Young, handsome, and blameless, the rest of her days must be spent in struggle and privation. The world holds out no promise of happiness for her, and yet she has never done any harm at all. As long as your child lived she endured her lot patiently, her hopes were fixed upon him. But now that he is dead what has she left? When you return to her,--if, indeed, G.o.d should be so merciful as to allow you to do so,--you will be old, broken-down, useless, and she will be the same.

She sees stretching before her a terrible future--nothing but sorrow, shame, poverty, and a miserable old age. No resource but to beg; thus her life is a worse punishment even than yours----"

Costantino, as white as death, panting, agonising, tried to protest, to say that he would surely be liberated before long, but the words died away on his lips; the other, meanwhile, gave him no chance, but pursued his theme in smooth, even tones, his dull eyes never leaving the prisoner's face.

"Her life is thus a worse punishment even than yours. You should think of these things, and, abandoning all hope, repent doubly of your crime."

He cleared his throat, and then continued in a different tone: "Now, however, the law has provided a means by which this great injustice can be rectified. You of course know very well that an act of divorce has gone into effect which enables a woman whose husband is guilty of a certain cla.s.s of crime, to marry again. Should your wife--sit down, keep quiet--should your wife apply for such a divorce, it would be your duty to grant it at once. I know that you are, or pretend to be, after all, a good Christian----"

Costantino, who was leaning on the table, shaking in every limb, but making a heroic effort to control himself, now broke in. "Has she applied for it?" he demanded.

"Sit down, sit down there," said the other, motioning with his pen; he wanted to continue his harangue, but Costantino again spoke, in a clear, firm voice that contrasted strangely with the trembling of his limbs. "I know my duty perfectly," he said, "and I shall never give my consent. I shall undoubtedly be freed before very long, and then my wife would bitterly repent of her mistake."

Two deep wrinkles furrowed the red cheeks of the lecturer, and an ugly smile shone from his dull eyes.

"Indeed!" he said. "Well, the consent of the prisoner is asked merely as a formality. It is, of course, his duty to give it, and his good-will counts for something in his favour. But it all comes to the same thing, whether he gives it or no--Eh, there! what--why--what is the matter?"

For Costantino had given a sudden lurch, and collapsed on the floor like a bundle of limp rags.

PART II

CHAPTER IX

Nineteen Hundred and Ten. In the "strangers' room" of the Porru house, Giovanna was looking over some purchases made that day in Nuoro. She was stouter than ever, and had lost something of her girlish look, but, nevertheless, she was both fresh and handsome still. She examined the pieces of linen and woollen stuff attentively, turning them over and over and feeling them with a preoccupied air, as though not altogether satisfied with the selection; then, folding them carefully, she wrapped them in newspaper and laid them away in her bag.

These things were the materials for her wedding outfit, for, having at last obtained her divorce, she was shortly to marry Dejas. She and her mother had come to Nuoro for the express purpose of making the purchases. The money had been borrowed with the utmost secrecy from Aunt Anna-Rosa Dejas, Giacobbe's sister, who had always taken a particular interest in Giovanna because of having been for a short time her foster-mother. It was the dead of winter, but the two women had courageously defied the fatigues and discomforts of the journey in order to lay in a supply of linen, cotton, kerchiefs, and woollen stuffs. The ceremony, a purely civil one, was to be conducted in the strictest privacy, more so, even, than on the occasion of a widow's marriage. But this made no difference to Aunt Bachissia, who was determined that her daughter should enter her new home fitted out in every respect like a youthful bride of good family.

The country-side was still wondering and gossipping over the scandalous affair, and it was rumoured that another couple contemplated applying for a divorce--by mutual consent. A great many people already looked askance at the Eras, and some said that Brontu had evil designs upon Giovanna. Giacobbe Dejas, Isidoro Pane, and a number of other friends had stopped going to the house after making final scenes that were almost violent. Giacobbe had snarled like a dog, and had used prayers and even threats in a last, vain effort to dissuade Giovanna from the step, until Aunt Bachissia had, at length, driven him out. Even Aunt Porredda at Nuoro, although it was her son who had obtained the divorce for Giovanna, had received her friends with marked coolness. The "Doctor," as she called her son, was, on the contrary, most cordial and attentive in his manner towards their guests.

So Giovanna was folding up her possessions in a thoughtful mood, her preoccupation having, however, to do solely with those bits of stuff.

The linen, it appeared, was somewhat tumbled; the fringe of the black Thibet kerchief, with its big crimson roses, was too short; one piece of ribbon had a spot on it,--worrying matters, all of them.

Night was falling--like that _other time_--but the surroundings, and the weather, and--her heart, were all, quite, quite different. The "strangers' room" now had a fine window, through whose panes shone the clear, cold light of a winter evening. The furniture, all entirely new, exhaled a powerful smell of varnished wood, while its surface glistened like h.o.a.rfrost. The door opened on the same covered gallery, but new granite steps now led down to the courtyard. The "Doctor's" practice was growing, and the entire house had been done over. He now had an office in the busiest part of the town, and was much in demand both for civil and penal processes. The most desperate cases, the worst offenders, all that cla.s.s of clients who have the least to hope from the law, entrusted their affairs to him.

Giovanna folded, wrapped, and packed her possessions, and then, the bag being somewhat over-full, she shook it vigorously to make the contents settle down; this accomplished, she turned with knitted brows, and slowly descended the outer stair, both hands thrust deep in the pockets always to be found just below the waist in the skirt of a Sardinian costume.

It was an evening in January, clear but extremely cold. Some silver stars, set in the cloudless blue of the sky, seemed to tremble in the frosty atmosphere. Crossing the courtyard Giovanna could see, through the window of the lighted dining-room, Grazia's pale face and great, eager eyes as she sat turning over the leaves of a fashion paper. The child had developed into a tall and pretty girl; she was dressed in the latest fashion, with great lace wings extending from the shoulders behind the arms; they obliged their wearers to walk sideways through any narrow aperture, but made them look, by way of compensation, like so many angels before the fall.

Grazia, seeing the guest, smiled at her without getting up, and the latter entered the kitchen.

Here, too, everything was new; the white walls, the stove of glistening bricks, the petroleum lamp hanging from the ceiling. It was all so gorgeous that Aunt Bachissia could not refrain from gazing about her the whole time, her shining, little, green beads of eyes, snapping and sparkling in the sallow, hawklike face, set in the folds of a black scarf. She at least, was unchanged--the old witch! She was seated beside the servant-maid, a dirty, dishevelled young person, whose loud and frequent laugh displayed a set of protruding teeth. Aunt Porredda was cooking, and scolding the maid for this annoying habit of hers. Only fancy! Here was the mistress doing the cooking, while the servant sat by the stove and--laughed! What kind of way to do was that? And, moreover, the good woman could never have one single moment's peace, and she the mother of a famous lawyer!

Giovanna seated herself at some little distance from the stove, stooping over with her hands still buried in the pockets of her skirt.

"Just look!" exclaimed Aunt Bachissia in a tone of envy. "This kitchen might be a parlour! You must do _your_ kitchen up like this, Giovanna."

"Yes," said the young woman absent-mindedly.

"Yes? Well, upon my soul, I should say so! G.o.dmother Malthina is close, but you have got to make her understand that money is meant to spend. A kitchen like this--why, it is heaven--upon my soul! This is living."

"What do you always say 'upon my soul' for?" asked the giggling servant-maid.

"If she doesn't choose to spend her money, how am I to make her?" said Giovanna with a sigh.

The servant was still laughing, but Aunt Porredda, who wanted to keep out of her guests' conversation, turned on her, and sharply ordered her to grate some cheese for the macaroni. The girl obeyed.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Aunt Bachissia as Giovanna sighed again.

"She remembers!" said Aunt Porredda to herself. "After all, she is a Christian, not an animal, and she can't help herself!"

But Giovanna spoke up crossly: