The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness.  Bosio Macomer was in his coffin.  The servants were exhausted, and there was no one to direct.  Gregorio had been heard laughing wildly in his room, and a frightened chambermaid said that he was going mad.  Elettra had great difficulty in getting something to eat, which she brought to Veronica’s room with a glass of wine.

The girl’s first outbreak of sorrow ebbed to a melancholy placidity, as the hours went by.  She got her prayer-book, and read certain prayers for the dead.  When her maid had gone out to buy the crape, she knelt down and said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply; and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while.  She took the artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she had kissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed last night when Bosio kissed her that once—­that only once that ever was to be.  And she took his photograph and looked at it, too.  But she could not bear that yet—­at least, not to look at it too closely.

Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house, and why no one came to her but her maid.  It seemed to her that she was always to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years.  As she grew more calm, she attempted to imagine what life would be without the companionship of Bosio.  That was what she should miss, for she was but little nearer to love than that.  It all looked so blank and gloomy that she cried again, out of sheer desolation and loneliness.  But of this she was somewhat ashamed, and she presently dried her eyes again.

She did not like to leave her room, either.  It seemed to her that death was outside, walking up and down throughout the rest of the house, until poor Bosio should be taken away.  And again she wondered about Matilde and Gregorio, and what they were doing.  She tried to read, but not the novel Bosio had given her.  She took up another book, and presently found herself saying prayers over it.  The day was very long and very sad.

Before Elettra came back from her errands, a servant knocked at Veronica’s door.  He said that there was a priest who was asking for her, and begged her to receive him for a few moments.

“It cannot be for me,” answered Veronica.  “It must be a mistake.  He wishes to see my aunt, or the count.”

“He asked for the Princess of Acireale,” said the man.  “I could not be mistaken, Excellency.”

“He does not know who I am, or he would not ask for me by that name.  Does he look poor?  It must be for charity.”

“So, so, Excellency.  He had an old cloak, but his face is that of an honest man.”

“Give him ten francs,” said Veronica, rising to get her pocket-book.  “And tell him that I am sorry that I cannot receive him.”

The servant took the note, and disappeared.  In three minutes he came back.