BUT Chilo did not appear for some time, and Vinicius knew not at last what to
think of his absence. In vain he repeated to himself that searching, if continued to
a certain and successful issue, must be gradual. His blood and impulsive nature
rebelled against the voice of judgment. To do nothing, to wait, to sit with folded
arms, was so repulsive to him that he could not be reconciled to it in any way. To
search the alleys of the city in the dark garb of a slave, through this alone, that it
was useless, seemed to him merely a mask for his own inefficiency, and could
give no satisfaction. His freedmen, persons of experience, whom he commanded
to search independently, turned out a hundred times less expert than Chio.
Meanwhile there rose in him, besides his love for Lygla, the stubbornness of a
player resolved to win. Vinicius had been always a person of this kind. From
earliest youth he had accomplished what he desired with the passionateness of
one who does not understand failure, or the need of yielding something. For a
time military discipline had put his self-will within bounds, but also it had
engrafted into him the conviction that every command of his to subordinates must
be fulfilled; his prolonged stay in the Orient, among people pliant and inured to
slavish obedience, confirmed in him the faith that for his "I wish" there were no
limits. At present his vanity, too, was wounded painfully. There was, besides, in
Lygia's opposition and resistance, and in her flight itself, which was to him
incomprehensible, a kind of riddle. In trying to solve this riddle he racked his
head terribly. He felt that Acte had told the truth, and that Lygia was not
indifferent. But if this were true, why had she preferred wandering and misery to
his love, his tenderness, and a residence in his splendid mansion? To this
question he found no answer, and arrived only at a kind of dim understanding
that between him and Lygia, between their ideas, between the world which
belonged to him and Petronius, and the world of Lygia and Pomponia, there
existed some sort of difference, some kind of misunderstanding as deep as an
abyss, which nothing could fill up or make even. It seemed to him, then, that he
must lose Lygia; and at this thought he lost the remnant of balance which
Petronius wished to preserve in him. There were moments in which he did not
know whether he loved Lygia or hated her; he understood only that he must find
her, and he would rather that the earth swallowed her than that he should not see
and possess her. By the power of imagination he saw her as clearly at times as if
she had been before his face. He recalled every word which he had spoken to
her; every word which he had heard from her. He felt her near; felt her on his
bosom, in his arms; and then desire embraced him like a flame. He loved her and
called to her.
And when he thought that he was loved, that she might do with willingness all
that he wished of her, sore and endless sorrow seized him, and a kind of deep
tenderness flooded his heart, like a mighty wave. But there were moments, too,
in which he grew pale from rage, and delighted in thoughts of the humiliation and
tortures which he would inflict on Lygia when he found her. He wanted not only to
have her, but to have her as a trampled slave. At the same time he felt that if the
