His wife, to whom you promised a pension, was even more moved by the kiss from the beautiful queen of the play, given to the bleeding corpse of a hideous workman (for he was hideous) than by all your other kindnesses. She embraced your knees, she felt that you had made her husband illustrious and that with your kiss on his brow his soul would never descend to hell.”

During the story the eyes of Madame Floriani’s elder son had been flashing like jewels.

“Yes, yes,” cried the handsome boy who had his mother’s pure features and intelligent expression. “I too was there and I have forgotten nothing. It happened just as you say, signor, and I too kissed poor Giananton.”

“My good Celio,” said Madame Floriani, kissing him, “You must not remember such emotions too much; they were too strong for your age; but on the other hand you must not forget them. God forbids us to shun the misfortune and suffering of others; one must always be ready to run towards them and never believe that there is nothing one can do, even if it is only to bless the dead and give a little support to those who weep. That is your way of seeing things, isn’t it, Celio?”

“Yes,” said the child with the tone of candour and firmness which he had from his mother, and he embraced her so hard and so wholeheartedly that for a moment her round, strong neck bore the mark of his sturdy little hands.

Madame Floriani ignored the roughness of the embrace and did not reproach him for it She went on eating with an excellent appetite, but even in the midst of her lively conversation with Salvator she was still the mother concerned with her children and carefully watched that he measured out the food and wine to each of them correctly, according to his age and temperament.

Hers was a nature which was active amid calm, indifferent to herself, attentive and vigilant for others; ardent in her affections, but without excessive anxiety, always concerned to make her children think without impairing their gaiety, always ready to play with them (and on this point very much a child herself), gay by instinct and habit, yet surprising one by a seriousness of judgement and a firmness of opinion which did not preclude a maternal tolerance extending well beyond the family circle. She had a clear, profound and lively mind She said amusing things with a calm manner and made others laugh without laughing herself It was her system to maintain good humour and to see the amusing side of annoyances, the acceptable side of suffering and the salutary side of misfortune. Her state, her whole life, her very being were an incessant education to her children, friends, servants and the poor. She existed, thought and breathed as it were for the moral and physical well-being of others, and in the midst of this work, so simple apparently, she did not seem to remember the possible existence of regrets or desires for herself.

And yet, as Salvator well knew, no woman had suffered so much.

Towards the end of supper, the little girls prepared to go to their mother’s bedroom and join their younger brother who was already asleep. The handsome Celio who, by reason of his twelve years enjoyed the privilege of remaining downstairs until ten o’clock, took his dog for a run on the terrace which overlooked the lake.

It was a beautiful sight to watch Madame Floriani at dessert receiving the last caresses of her children, while at the same time these charming youngsters were themselves saying good night and kissing each other in a sprightly ritual of embraces half loving, half teasing. With her profile like that of an antique cameo, her hair artlessly and unaffectedly coiled around her shapely head, her gown loose and unadorned, behind which one had difficulty in surmising the statuesque figure of a Roman empress, her calm pallor flushed by the violent kisses of her children, her eyes tired but serene, her beautiful arms whose round firm muscles were gracefully outlined when she encircled the whole of her brood, she suddenly became more beautiful and alive than Salvator had ever yet seen her. Hardly had the children gone when, forgetting the ghost of Karol which was moving fitfully against the background of the far wall, he poured out his heart to her.

“Lucrezia,” he cried, covering with kisses those arms tired after so many games and maternal embraces, “I do not understand where my mind, heart and eyes were when I imagined that you had aged and lost your looks. Never have you been younger, fresher, sweeter, more capable of driving a man frantic. If you wish to drive me into that state you only have to say one word, and maybe you would have to say more than one to prevent it. I have always loved you with friendship, esteem, admiration, and now…”

“And now, my friend, you are mocking me or raving,” said Madame Floriani, with the calm modesty which results from the habit of holding sway over others. “Let us not speak lightly of serious matters, please.”

“But nothing is more serious than what I am saying … Come,” he said, lowering his voice a little out of instinct rather than real caution, for the prince was not missing a single word, “Tell me, are you free at the present moment?”

“Not in the slightest – indeed, even less than ever. Henceforth I belong entirely to my family and my children. Those are chains that are more sacred than all others, and I shall not break them.”

“Of course! Who would wish to break them? But what about love? Tell me, is it true that for the past year you have renounced it?”

“It is very true.”

“What? No lover? And what of the father of Celio and Stella?”

“He is dead. He was Memmo Ranieri.”

“Yes, that’s true … But the little girl’s father?”

“Beatrice’s? He left me before she was born.”

“So he was not the father of your youngest boy?”

“Salvator’s? No.”

“Is your last child called Salvator?”

“In memory of you, and in gratitude, because you never made love to me.”

“Divine and cruel woman! But tell me, where is the father of my namesake?”

“I left him last year.”

“Left him? You left him?”

“Yes, indeed! I was weary of love. I had found nothing but torment and injustice in it I had either to die of sorrow under the yoke or live for my children by sacrificing to them a man who could not love them all equally. I chose the latter; I suffered, but I do not repent of my decision.”

“But I was told that you had had a liaison with a friend of mine, a Frenchman, a man of some talent, a painter.”

“Saint-Gély? We loved one another for a week.”

“Your adventure caused a stir.”

“Perhaps. He was impertinent to me. I asked him never to come back to my house.”

“Is he the father of Salvator?”

“No. Salvator’s father is Vandoni, a penniless actor, possibly the best and most honest of all men. But he was consumed by childish, wretched jealousy. Would you believe it, his jealousy was retrospective. Unable to suspect me in the present, he overwhelmed me with my past. It was not difficult; my life is vulnerable to the attacks of moralists, and he was incapable of generosity. I could not endure his quarrels, reproaches and tantrums, which soon threatened to explode in my children’s presence. I fled.