Down at the Blue House, Rafael had never dared speak so openly.  The presence of Leonora’s servants; the nonchalant, mocking air with which she welcomed him at the door; the irony with which she met his every hint at a declaration had always crushed, humiliated him.  But there, on the open highway, it was different somehow.  He felt free.  He would empty his whole heart out.

What anguish!  Every day he went to the Blue House trembling with hope, enthralled in his dream of love!  “Perhaps it will be today,” he would say to himself each time.  And his legs would give way at the knees, and he would choke as he swallowed!  Then, hours later, at nightfall, he would slink home, downcast, dispirited, desperate, staggering along the road under the star-light as if he were drunk, repressing the tears burning in his eyes, longing for the peace of death, like a weary explorer who must go on and on breaking his way over one ice-field after another.  She must have noticed, surely!  She must have seen the untiring efforts he made to please her!...  Ignorant, humble, recognizing the vast gulf that separated them because of the different lives they had led, how he had worked to raise himself to a level with the men who had loved and won her!  If she spoke of the Russian count—­a model of stylish elegance—­the next day, to the great astonishment of his mother, Rafael would take out his best clothes and, all sweating in the hot sun and nearly strangled by a high collar, he would set out along that same road—­his Road to Calvary—­walking on his toes like a boarding-school girl in order not to get his shoes dirty.  If Hans Keller had come to Leonora’s mind, he would run through his histories of music, and dressing up like some artist he had read about in novels, would come to her house fully intending to deliver an oration on the immortal Master, Wagner, whom he knew nothing at all about, but whom he adored as a member of his family....  Good God!  All that was ridiculous, he knew very well; it would have been far better to present himself just as he was, undisguised, in all his littleness.  He knew that this pretending to equality with the thousand or more figures flitting in Leonora’s memory, was grotesque.  But there was nothing, absolutely nothing he would not do to stir her heart a little, be loved for a day, a minute, a second—­and then die!...

There was a note of such real feeling in the youth’s confession that Leonora, more and more deeply moved, unconsciously drew closer to him, almost grazing him as they walked along; and she smiled slightly, as she repeated her previous phrase—­a blend of motherly affection and compassion: 

“Poor Rafael!...  My poor dear boy!”

They had reached the gate to the orchard.  The walk inside was deserted.  In the little square some hens were scratching about.

Overwhelmed by the strain of that confession, in which he had vented the anguish and dreams of many months, Rafael leaned against the trunk of an old orange-tree.  Leonora stood in front of him, listening to his words, with head lowered, making marks on the ground with the tip of her red parasol.