“Aren’t you going to call your maid?” Marco asked, taking the gardenia out of his buttonhole, as if about to undress.
“No,” she replied, “a little later. I must say something to you, Marco.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly, and jokingly sought to change the tone of the conversation.
“We will talk in bed if you like, dear. It is an excellent place for conversation, and I will listen to you with deep attention without going to sleep.”
“No,” she replied dryly, “we must talk as we are.”
“As we are, dressed for society! As we were in Casa Nerola? Very well, dear, but I find the Emperor is missing. We can telephone to him, if you like, to assist at this colloquy?”
And he laughed mischievously. However, Vittoria paid no attention.
“I want to make a request of you, Marco.”
“I want to make a retreat at Bambino Gesù now that Christmas is drawing near,” she concluded, in a low voice.
“A novena!” he exclaimed, internally relieved, but not showing it; “and what prevents you from doing it here?”
“It is impossible, Marco. It isn’t a question of prayer only. One must retire for nine whole days to a convent.”
“To a convent? Are you going to become a nun like Ophelia?”
“Nothing, nothing. Go then to your convent; which one?”
“That of the white nuns of Gesù Bambino in via Merulana.”
“Who put such a strange idea into your head, Vittoria? Doesn’t it seem a little ridiculous to you?”
“It is neither ridiculous nor strange,” she added, shaking her head; “other ladies go there to retire and pray.”
“No,” she insisted coldly; “young ladies, and beautiful too; young married women especially.”
“Who are perhaps in mortal sin. Are you in mortal sin, though I didn’t know it, Vittoria?” he laughed loudly, looking at her.
“I hope not,” she replied, lowering her eyes to hide a sudden flash; “but so many people can be in mortal sin, prayers are necessary for us and them.”
“Even for me, dear nun!” he exclaimed mischievously.
“For you also,” she replied expressionlessly.
“To-morrow evening at eight. To-morrow is the fifteenth of December.”
“No; please tell her yourself to-morrow.”
“She knows what it is a question of,” murmured Vittoria; “all Roman ladies know of this retreat in the monastery of Gesù Bambino. Get her to tell you.”