Lucrezia took Hermione by the hand and led her round the angle of the
cottage. There, under the low roof of the out-house, dressed only in his
shirt and trousers with his brown arms bare and his hair tumbled over his
damp forehead, lay Gaspare on a heap of hay close to Tito, the donkey.
Some hens were tripping and pecking by his legs, and a black cat was
curled up in the hollow of his left armpit. He looked infinitely young,
healthy, and comfortable, like an embodied carelessness that had flung
itself down to its need.
"I wish I could sleep like that," said Hermione.
"Signora!" said Lucrezia, shocked. "You in the stable with that white
dress! Mamma mia! And the hens!"
"Hens, donkey, cat, hay, and all--I should love it. But I'm too old ever
to sleep like that. Don't wake him!"
Lucrezia was stepping over to Gaspare.
"And I won't wake the padrone. Let them both sleep. They've been up all
night. I'll eat alone. When they wake we'll manage something for them.
Perhaps they'll sleep till evening, till dinner-time."
"Gaspare will, signora. He can sleep the clock round when he's tired."
"And the padrone too, I dare say. All the better."
She spoke cheerfully, then went to sit down to her solitary meal.
The letter of Artois was her only company. She read it again as she ate,
and again felt as if it had been written by a man over whom some real
misfortune was impending. The thought of his isolation in that remote
African city pained her warm heart. She compared it with her own
momentary solitude, and chided herself for minding--and she did mind--the
lonely meal. How much she had--everything almost! And Artois, with his
genius, his fame, his liberty--how little he had! An Arab servant for his
companion, while she for hers had Maurice! Her heart glowed with
thankfulness, and, feeling how rich she was, she felt a longing to give
to others--a longing to make every one happy, a longing specially to make
Emile happy. His letter was horribly sad. Each time she looked at it she
was made sad by it, even apprehensive. She remembered their long and
close friendship, how she had sympathized with all his struggles, how she
had been proud of possessing his confidence and of being asked to advise
him on points connected with his work. The past returned to her, kindling
fires in her heart, till she longed to be near him and to shed their
warmth on him. The African sun shone upon him and left him cold, numb.
How wonderful it was, she thought, that the touch of a true friend's
hand, the smile of the eyes of a friend, could succeed where the sun
failed. Sometimes she thought of herself, of all human beings, as
pygmies. Now she felt that she came of a race of giants, whose powers
were illimitable. If only she could be under that palm-tree for a moment
beside Emile, she would be able to test the power she knew was within
her, the glorious power that the sun lacked, to shed light and heat
through a human soul. With an instinctive gesture she stretched out her
hand as if to give Artois the touch he longed for. It encountered only
the air and dropped to her side. She got up with a sigh.