Though I performed my task as quickly as might be, it took me longer than I thought, and filled me with more loathing and reluctance than I had deemed possible.  It was a grewsome, ghastly piece of work—­a work of preparation—­and when I had finished it entirely to my satisfaction, I felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into my very marrow.  I shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me upright, and my teeth chattered as though I were seized by strong ague.  But the fixity of my purpose strengthened me till all was done—­till the stage was set for the last scene of the tragedy.  Or comedy?  What you will!  I know that in the world nowadays you make a husband’s dishonor more of a whispered jest than anything else—­you and your heavy machinery of the law.  But to me—­I am so strangely constituted—­dishonor is a bitterer evil than death.  If all those who are deceived and betrayed felt thus, then justice would need to become more just.  It is fortunate—­ for the lawyers—­that we are not all honorable men!

When I returned from my dreary walk in the driving storm I found Vincenzo still fast asleep.  I was glad of this, for had he seen me in the plight I was, he would have had good reason to be alarmed concerning both my physical and mental condition.  Perceiving myself in the glass, I recoiled as from an image of horror.  I saw a man with haunted, hungry eyes gleaming out from under a mass of disordered white hair, his pale, haggard face set and stern as the face of a merciless inquisitor of old Spain, his dark cloak dripping with glittering raindrops, his hands and nails stained as though he had dug them into the black earth, his boots heavy with mire and clay, his whole aspect that of one who had been engaged in some abhorrent deed, too repulsive to be named.  I stared at my own reflection thus and shuddered; then I laughed softly with a sort of fierce enjoyment.  Quickly I threw off all my soiled habiliments, and locked them out of sight, and arraying myself in dressing-gown and slippers, I glanced at the time.  It was half-past one—­already the morning of my bridal.  I had been absent three hours and a half.  I went into my salon and remained there writing.  A few minutes after two o’clock had struck the door opened noiselessly, and Vincenzo, looking still very sleepy, appeared with an expression of inquiring anxiety.  He smiled drowsily, and seemed relieved to see me sitting quietly in my accustomed place at the writing-table.  I surveyed him with an air of affected surprise.

“Ebbene, Vincenzo!  What has become of you all this while?”

“Eccellenza,” he stammered, “it was the Lacrima; I am not used to wine!  I have been asleep.”

I laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn on my own account, and rose from my easy-chair.

“Veramente,” I said, lightly, “so have I, very nearly!  And if I would appear as a gay bridegroom, it is time I went to bed.  Buona notte.”