Don Teodoro wrote a few words to Taquisara, embodying what Don.  Matteo had advised him to say.  He added also that matters had not turned out as he had expected and that he should return to Muro as usual on the twentieth of the month.  The Sicilian, read the letter twice and then burned it carefully.  He was neither surprised nor disappointed by its contents, though he had expected that there would be much more difficulty in undoing what had been done.  There was clearly nothing more to be said, as there was most certainly nothing more to hope.  Don Teodoro had undoubtedly consulted the archbishop of Naples, thought Taquisara, and such a decision was final and authoritative.

He had succeeded in forcing himself into a sort of mechanical regularity of life which helped him through the day.  Gianluca needed him still, though less than formerly, and as long as he could be of use, and could control his face and voice, he would stay in Muro.  Since Veronica had fixed the first of January as a limit, he could hardly find an excuse for going away during the last three weeks of the time, when he could still be of infinite service to his friend on the journey to Naples.

On the whole, he considered himself very little.  It was easier to do his utmost, and to invent more than his utmost to be done, than it would be to live an idle life anywhere else.

Again, as in the early days, he avoided Veronica when he could do so, without attracting Gianluca’s attention, and Veronica herself kept out of his way as much as she could.  Without words they had a tacit understanding that they would never be left alone together, even for an instant.

One day, by chance, going in opposite directions through the house, they opened opposite doors of the same room and faced each other unexpectedly.  For a single instant both paused, and then came forward to pass each other.  Veronica held her head high and looked straight before her, for they had met already on that day, and there was no reason why she should speak to him.  But Taquisara could not help looking into her face, and he saw how hard it tried to be and yet how, in spite of herself, it softened almost before she had passed him.  He turned and glanced at her retreating figure, and her head was bent low, and her right hand, hanging by her side, opened and shut twice convulsively, in his sight.

He had not dared to suggest to himself until then that she might possibly love him, but in the flash of that quick passing he almost knew it.  Then, before he had closed the door behind him and entered the next room, the knowledge was gone, and he cursed himself for the thought, as though it had been an insult to her.  If he should have to pass her alone again, he would rather cut off his right hand than turn and look at her.  But that one moment, past and gone, had life in it to torment him night and day.

Gianluca was no better, and no worse.  He wheeled himself about the great rooms, and on fine mornings Veronica took him to drive.  She read to him, played besique with him, fenced with Taquisara to amuse him; she devoted herself to him in every way; but as day followed day, she invented all sorts of occupations and games which should take the place of conversation.  Anything was better than talking with him, now; anything was better than to hear him say that he loved her, expecting her to pronounce the words.