enjoy? Why have you made me a wanderer on the face of the earth, searching, for ever searching? Thy rod and thy staff did not comfort me. My cup was always empty. My days were numbered. . . . Fierce anger dominated her now. . . . I've had nothing, nothing. . . . The bony claw convulsively clutched, clutched.
Her manner suddenly changed. Campaspe, she cajoled, open the drawer of that desk.
Campaspe obeyed her.
The photograph! The photograph! Her impatience was almost obscene.
In a Russian leather case Campaspe found the picture, taken in Nice, of a blond boy of radiant beauty, playing tennis. He reminded her of Hadrian's Bithynian Antinoüs, a classic Greek lad in white flannels.
Give it to me! Give it to me! the Countess screamed, snatching the case from Campaspe's proffering hand as soon as she could reach it.
Luigi! Luigi! she cried, kissing the photograph. I loved you! I love you still. How could you leave me, like all the others? Why were you, too, unfaithful to my dream? Did God take you away from me? I hate God! I hate God! I hate God!
Her words once more became an indistinguishable muttering; the photograph slipped from her fingers and lay, face downwards, on the coverlet. At last, the Countess was silent.
