"That was long ago, Signore. It was all different in Sicily!"
His eyes filled with tears, yet his face remained stern. But Artois
was seized again, as when he walked in the golden air between the
vineyards and heard the peasants singing, by an intense desire to
bring happiness to the unhappy, especially and above all to one
unhappy woman. To-night his intellect was subordinate to his heart,
his pride of intellect was lost in feeling, in an emotion that the
simplest might have understood and shared: the longing to be of use,
to comfort, to pour balm into the terrible wound of one who had been
his friend--such a friend as only a certain type of woman can be to a
certain type of man.
"Gaspare," he said, "you and I--we helped the Signora once, we helped
her in Sicily."
Gaspare looked away from him, and did not answer.
"Perhaps we can help her now. Perhaps only we can help her. Let me
into the house, Gaspare. I shall do nothing here to make your Padrona
sad."
Gaspare looked at him again, looked into his eyes, then moved aside,
giving room for him to enter.
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