Fantasy

III.

III.They, the Tricolors, the tallest, the handsomest, the proudest girls, had the privilege of sitting together in groups, during the hours set aside for needlework, in a corner of the long work-room. The other pupils sat on benches, behind frames, in rows, separated from each other, in enforced silence. The Tricolors, whose deft fingers produced the prettiest and most costly work, for the annual exhibition, enjoyed a certain freedom. So, in a narrow circle, with their backs turned to the others, they chatted in whispers. Whenever the work-mistress approached them, they turned the conversation, and asking for her advice, would hold up their work for her approval. It was their best hour, almost free of surveillance, delivered from the tyranny of Cherubina Friscia’s boiled fish eyes, with liberty to talk of whatever they chose. The work dragged on; but word and thought flew.

Giovanna Casacalenda—who was embroidering an altar-cover on finest cambric, a cloudy, diaphanous piece of work, a very marvel—had a way of rounding her arms, with certain graceful and studied movements of the fingers, as they drew the thread. Ginevra Avigliana was absorbed in a piece of lace made with bobbins, like Venetian point, to be presented to the Directress at the end of the term; every palma (a measure of six inches) cost five francs in silk. Carolina Pentasuglia was working a red velvet cushion in gold. Giulia Pezzali was making a portfolio-cover in chenille. But little thought they of their work, while the needles clicked and the bobbins flew; especially little on that morning, when they could talk of nothing but the Altimare scandal.

“So they have ordered her to appear before the Directress’s Committee?” inquired Vitali, who was working with beads on perforated cardboard.

“No, not yet. Do you think they will?” asked Spaccapietra, timidly. She did not dare to raise her eyes from the shirt she was sewing.

“Diamine!” exclaimed Avigliana. “Didn’t you hear what ambiguous things there were in the composition! A girl has no right to know anything about them.”

“Altimare is innocent as a new-born babe,” replied Spaccapietra, gravely. No one answered, but all looked towards Altimare. Separated from the rest, far away from them, she sat with bowed head, making lint. It was her latest fancy; to make lint for the hospitals. She had voluntarily withdrawn herself, but appeared to be calm.

“Nonsense, girls, nonsense,” observed Minichini, passing her hand through her hair with a masculine gesture. “Every one knows these things, but no one can speak of them.”

“But to write about a wife’s deceiving her husband, Minichini, what do you think of that?”

“Oh, dear, that’s how it is in society; Signora Ferrari deceives her husband with my cousin,” added Minichini, “I saw them ... behind a door....”

“How, what, what did you see?” asked two or three in concert, while the others opened their eyes.

“The maestra is coming,” said Spaccapietra.

“As usual, Minichini, you are not working,” observed the teacher.

“You know it hurts my eyes.”

“Are these your glasses? You are not so very short-sighted; I think you might work.”

“And why, what for?”

“For your own house, when you return to it....”

“You are perhaps unaware that my mother has three maids,” said the other, turning on her like a viper.

The teacher bent over the work of Avigliana, muttering something about “pride ... insolence,” and then presently withdrew. Minichini shrugged her shoulders. After a moment:

“I say, Minichini, what were the Signora Ferrari and your cousin doing behind the door?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Well ... they were kissing.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chorus, alternately blushing and turning pale.

“On the lips, of course?” asked Casacalenda, biting her own to make them redder.

“Yes.”

The girls were silent, absorbed in thought. Minichini always unsettled the work-class with her tales: she would tell the simplest thing with a certain malicious reticence and brusque frankness, that wrought upon their imagination. “I shall work myself a wrapper like this altar-cloth, when I leave this house,” said Casacalenda, “it is so becoming to the skin.”

And she tried it over her hand, a pink and exquisite transparency.

“Dio, when shall I get out of this house!” exclaimed Avigliana.

“Three more months, eight days, and seven hours,” said Pentasuglia.

“Doesn’t Altimare wish she were out of it?” murmured Vitali.

“Goodness knows how they will punish her,” said Spaccapietra.

“If I were she, I should give the Directress a piece of my mind.”

Then all at once they heard: “Hush-sh.” The Vice-Directress had entered the room; quite an event. Altimare raised her eyes, but only for an instant, and her lids quivered. She went on making lint. To avoid a sensation, the Vice-Directress bent over two or three frames, and made a few remarks. At last:

“Altimare, the Directress wishes to see you.”

Altimare stood up, erect and rigid, and passed straight down through two rows of pupils without looking either to right or left. The girls kept silence and worked industriously.

“Holy Mother, do thou help her,” said Caterina Spaccapietra under her breath.

“My married sister told me that Zola’s books are not fit to be read,” said Giovanna Casacalenda.

“That means that they may be read, but that it wouldn’t do to say before gentlemen that one had read them.”

“Oh! what a number of books I have read that no one knows anything about,” exclaimed Avigliana.

“I know of a marriage that never came off,” said Minichini, “because the fiancée let out that she read the Dame aux Camélias.”

“La Dame aux Camélias! how interesting it must be! Who has read it, girls?”

“Not I, nor I, nor I,” in chorus, accompanied by gentle sighs.

“I have read it,” confessed Minichini.

“The maestra is coming,” whispered Vitali, the sentinel.

“What is the matter, that you don’t sew, Spaccapietra?” asked the teacher.

“Nothing,” replied Caterina, casting down her eyes, while her hands trembled.

“Do you feel ill? Would you like to go out into the air?”

“No, thank you, I am well; I prefer to stay here.”

“Are you in trouble about Altimare?” asked Avigliana.

“No, no,” murmured the other, shyly.

“After all, what can they do to her?” said Casacalenda.

“Diamine, they won’t eat her,” said Minichini. “If they do anything to her, we will avenge her.”

“The Directress is cruel,” said Avigliana.

“And the Vice-Directress is a wretch,” added Vitali.

“And as far as malignity goes, Cherubina Friscia is no joke,” observed Pentasuglia.

“Dio mio, may I soon leave this house!” exclaimed Casacalenda.

All heads bent in acquiescence to this prayer. There was a spell of silence. Caterina Spaccapietra, overcome by a great lassitude, dragged slowly at her needle.

“Minichini, darling, tell us about the Dame aux Camélias,” entreated Giovanna Casacalenda, her sweet voice thrilling with the passion of the unknown.

“I cannot, my heart.”

“Why not? is it so dreadful? Tell it, Minichini. Artemisia, sweetest, tell us about that book.” The others did not speak, but curiosity burned in their eyes; desire dried the words on their parched lips. Giovanna pleaded for them, her great eyes brimming over with entreaty, while a languid smile played about her full lips.

“Well, I’ll tell it you. But you will never tell any one, Giovanna?”

“No, dear love.”

“It is too late to finish the tale to-day....”

“Never mind, never mind, go on.”

“Well then, work hard, without looking at me; as if you were not listening to me. I shall turn towards Giovanna, as if I were chatting with her: she must nod approval from time to time, and say a word or two. But, for goodness’ sake, don’t show that you are listening to me:

“Once upon a time, there lived in Paris, a poor little dressmaker, whose name was Marguerite Duplessis....”

“Violetta Valery,” interrupted Pezzali; “I have seen the Traviata.”

“Don’t interrupt; in making the opera, they changed the name.... She was a radiant beauty at fourteen, delicate, svelte, with long blonde chestnut hair, large blue eyes, and an ethereal form. She was very poor; she wore a faded cotton frock, a little black shawl, transparent from age, and shabby shoes, down at heel. Every day she went to the man who sold fried potatoes, and bought herself two sous worth of them. She was known as the Blonde of the fried potatoes. But she was born for beautiful things, for luxury and elegance: she could not bear poverty and misery; she held out for a time, but not for long. One fine day, the pretty dove had a perfumed nest....”

“What had she done?” asked Avigliana, bewildered.

“She had become ... one of those....”

“Here is Altimare,” said Spaccapietra, half rising from he chair.

Every one turned round. Lucia advanced slowly, with uncertain gait, stumbling here and there against the chairs as if she did not see them. Her hands hung down against her dress as if they did not belong to her. Her face was not pale, it was livid, with wild eyes. She sat down, but did not take up her work. Her companions looked at her aghast. The emaciated figure of the ardent ascetic had always intimidated them: now it terrified them. Something very serious must have passed between herself and the Directress. Without saying a word, Caterina Spaccapietra laid down her work, left the charmed circle of the Tricolors, and went and seated herself by Lucia. Altimare took no notice of her, but sat as still as one petrified, with an expression of pain on her face.

“What is the matter, Lucia?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, Lucia, have they made you suffer much; do you still suffer?”

Not even a sign that she breathed; not a line moved in her face.

“Lucia, sai, I don’t know what to say to comfort you, I don’t know how to say it, I don’t....” Then she was silent. She took one of Lucia’s hands in hers; it was icy cold. The hand lay there, inert and lifeless. Caterina caressed it as if to put warmth into it; indeed, she was trying to think of something to say, but she found nothing. She sat by her side, leaning slightly towards her, endeavouring to make Lucia look at her. The Tricolors watched from a distance. The whole College was watching.

“Why do you not cry, Lucia?” suggested Caterina, timidly.

Nothing, no impression. Caterina felt her own embarrassment and confusion increase. “Tell me, Lucia, tell me what ails you? Be comforted; see, I cannot console you; but speak, cry, give it vent, it will choke you.”

Nothing. All at once Lucia’s hand contracted nervously; she stood up, still petrified, then thrust her hand into her hair and tore it, gave one long, heartrending, horrible cry, and rushed like a whirlwind down the room. The confusion was indescribable. Caterina Spaccapietra was stunned for a moment.

“To the terrace!” cried Minichini, “that’s where the danger is. To the terrace!”

Lucia Altimare fled along the hall with bowed head, the dark plaits of her hair hanging loose over her shoulders, her white gown clinging to her limbs. She fled along the room, and down the corridor, feeling the hot breath of her pursuers close upon her. In the long corridor, she doubled her speed; at the steps leading to the refectory, she cast aside her tricolor scarf.

“Altimare, Altimare, Altimare!” said her panting school-fellows. She did not turn; she bounded up the steps, stumbled, instantly rose to her feet again, drew a long breath and gained the corridor on the upper story that ran parallel with the dormitory. She rushed to the door; but uttered a cry of rage and anguish when she found it closed.

“Altimare, for pity’s sake, Altimare!” called the voices of her pursuers, in a tumult. She ran to another door, pushed it open and entered the dormitory. She made a wild gesture of salutation to the Christ over her bed. At the further end of the long room was a large bay window, which overlooked the terrace. Wherever she went, the whole College pressed within a dozen yards of her footsteps; but she did not hear them. With one supreme bound she reached the window, opened it, and rushed out upon the black asphalt, burning under the July sun. Blinded by the brilliant outdoor light, mad with despair, she dashed forward, wishing, almost believing, that the stone parapet would give way at her desire. But when she got there, and hurriedly made the sign of the cross, two iron arms caught her round the waist.

“Let me go, Caterina, let me throw myself down.”

“No.”

“Loose me, I will die!”

“No.”

And for an instant there was a struggle on the broad, deserted terrace, close to the outer wall, beyond which was the precipice. Caterina held her close, panting, yet never loosening her hold. Lucia struggled with serpentine flexibility; striking, scratching, and biting. Then she gave a scream, and fell down insensible on the asphalt. When the others arrived, when the whole College assembled on that wide terrace, Caterina was fanning Lucia’s face with her handkerchief, and sucking away the blood from the scratches on her own hands.

“But for thee, she would have died,” said Minichini, kissing her. “How did you manage?”

“I came up by the chapel stair,” said Caterina, simply. “Directress, I beg your pardon, but would you mind sending for some vinegar?”