With an
effort, she wrote a few words, and then stopped short and leaned back in
her chair, staring at the tapestry. It was a grim farce to write about
her streets and her houses and her charities to a man who was dying--and
who loved her. Yet she could not speak of his illness without letting
him know that Taquisara had informed her of it. She tried to go on, and
stopped again. Poor Gianluca--he was so young! All at once her pity
overflowed unexpectedly, and she felt the tears in her eyes and on her
cheeks. She brushed them away, and left her letter unfinished.
Half an hour later she was with Don Teodoro, busy about her usual
occupations and plans. But she was absent-minded, and matters did not go
well. She left him earlier than usual and shut herself up in her own
room. She had not been there a quarter of an hour, however, before she
felt stifled and oppressed by the close solitude, and she came out again
and climbed to the top of the dungeon tower, where the little plot of
cabbages had been converted into a tiny flower garden, and the roses
were all in bloom.
With the rising of her pity had come the desire to see Gianluca and talk
with him. She could not tell why she wished it so much, after having
felt so horribly indifferent at first, but the wish was there, and like
all her wishes, now, it must be satisfied without delay. She was
supremely powerful in her little mountain town, and on the whole she was
using her power very wisely.
Pages:
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375