“It is the most beautiful spectacle I have seen in my whole life. But let us spend the night where you wish. It is of little importance.”

“That depends on your state. Shall we proceed to the next stage or would you prefer to make a little detour and go as far as Iseo, on the edge of the little lake? How do you feel?”

“Indeed, I don’t know.”

“You never know. It is enough to drive one to desperation. Tell me, are you in pain?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“But are you tired?”

“Yes, but no more than ordinarily.”

“Well, let us go to Iseo; the air there will be milder than up here.”

So they made their way towards the little harbour of Iseo. There had been a festival in the neighbourhood Carts, harnessed with lean sturdy ponies, were returning home with girls in their Sunday best, their coiled hair pierced with long silver pins and crowned with real flowers. The men were riding on horses or donkeys, or simply walking. The entire road was covered with the merry crowd, happy women and men a little over-excited by wine and love who were shouting and exchanging laughter and broad remarks, too broad for the chaste ears of Prince Karol.

In all countries the peasant who speaks as he feels and does not change his simple manner of expressing himself, has both wit and originality. Salvator, who did not miss a single pun of the dialect they spoke, could not refrain from smiling at the swift sallies which were flung from one side of the road to the other, as the post-chaise passed between them, slowly descending a steep slope in the direction of the lake. Those beautiful women in their beribboned carts, those dark eyes, those floating kerchiefs, that fragrance of flowers, the red sunset in the background and the bold words uttered in fresh ringing voices, put him in excellent Italian humour. Had he been alone he would not have needed much time to seize the bridle of one of the little horses and slip into the cart adorned by the prettiest women. But the presence of his friend compelled him to be grave and, to distract himself from his temptations, he began to hum between his teeth. This expedient was of no avail, for he soon realised that in spite of himself he was repeating a dance tune which he had picked up out of the air from a bevy of village girls who were humming it as a souvenir of the festivity.

3.

Salvator managed to maintain an air of cool composure until a tall brunette, riding astride her horse not far from their carriage, displayed with rather excessive self-satisfaction her firm, rounded leg topped by a pretty garter. It was impossible for him not to utter an exclamation and lean his head out of the window in order to pursue the sight of this strong, shapely leg.

“Has she fallen, then?” said the prince, noticing his concern.

“She? Don’t you mean what?” answered the young fool. And he went on: “Aren’t you referring to the garter?”

“Garter? I am talking about the woman who rode past. What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, nothing,” replied Salvator who had been unable to resist raising his travelling cap in salute to the leg. “In this land of polite manners one should always keep one’s head uncovered” And as he flung himself back into the rear of the coach he added: “A vivid pink garter edged with bright blue is very fetching.”

Karol’s vocabulary was by no means prudish; he made no comment, but looked at the sparkling lake which shone with colours certainly far more splendid than those of a country girl’s garter.

Salvator understood his silence and, as if to excuse himself, asked his friend if he were not struck by the beauty of the human race in this region.

“Yes,” replied Karol, with the intention of being agreeable. “I have noticed that the human form around here is of a sculptural type. But you know that I am no connoisseur.”

“I deny it; you have an admirable understanding of what is beautiful, and I have seen you in ecstasy over ancient statuary.”

“One moment! There is ancient and ancient; I love the fine, pure, elegant ideal of the Parthenon. But I do not like or at least I don’t understand the heavy-muscled Roman art and the bold lines of the decadence. This country is inclined towards materialism, the race smacks of it I am not interested in it”

“What? In all honesty, doesn’t the sight of a beautiful woman delight your eyes, even for a moment, when she passes?”

“As far as I am concerned, I have accepted your easy, trite admiration for all women who pass you, however slight their pretensions to beauty. You are eager to fall in love, yet the one who is to gain possession of your being has not appeared hitherto. Doubtless, the woman God has created for you exists; she is waiting for you and you are seeking her. That is how I explain your senseless loves, your brusque bouts of disgust, and all those tortures of the soul which you call your pleasures. But, as for me, you know that I did meet my life’s companion, you are aware that I learnt to know her well, you know that I shall always love her dead, as I have loved her alive. As nothing can resemble her, as nobody can remind me of her, I do not look nor do I search I have no need to admire what exists outside the image which I carry in my thoughts, eternally perfect, eternally living.”

Salvator was inclined to contradict his friend, but he was afraid of seeing him grow heated over such a subject and summoning a feverish strength for the ensuing discussion which he dreaded more for him than the languor of fatigue. He contented himself with asking him if he was absolutely certain never to love another woman.

“As God Himself could not possibly create another being as perfect as the one He, in His infinite mercy, had intended for me, He will not permit me to stray so far as to attempt to love a second time.”

“Life is long, however,” said Salvator in a tone of involuntary doubt, “and that kind of oath cannot be made at the age of twenty-four.”

“One isn’t always young at the age of twenty-four,” replied Karol, then he sighed and sank into a thoughtful silence. Salvator saw that he had aroused the idea of premature death which nourished his friend like a kind of poison. He pretended not to read his mind on that point, and tried to distract him by pointing out the pretty valley which surrounded the lake.

There is nothing imposing about the aspect of the small lake of Iseo, and its approaches are as gentle and cool as an eclogue of Virgil.