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And they had gone together to Sicily, to the husband whose
memory Hermione still adored. And then had followed swiftly the
murder, the murderer's departure to America, saved by the silence of
Gaspare, and the journey of the bereaved woman to Italy, where Artois
had left her and returned to France.
Once more Artois had his friend, released from the love of another
man. But he wished it were not so. Hermione's generosity met with a
full response of generosity from him. All his egotism and selfishness
dropped from him then, shaken down like dead leaves by the tempest of
a genuine emotion. His knowledge of her grief, his understanding of
its depth, brought to him a sorrow that was keen, and even exquisitely
painful. For a long while he was preoccupied by an intense desire to
assuage it. He strove to do so by acting almost in defiance of his
nature, by fostering deception. From the Abetone Hermione had written
him letters, human documents--the tale of the suffering of a woman's
heart.


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