“I have never understood, Marco,” she resumed in a grave voice, “if you loved this Vittoria Casalta seriously.”
“What does it matter now?” he exclaimed, a little vexed.
“No, it doesn’t matter, it is true. Still, I should have liked to have heard it from you.”
“How many times have you asked this, Maria?” he said, between reproof and increasing vexation.
“Also you have asked me pretty often, Marco, if I ever loved my husband,” she retorted disdainfully.
At such a reminder the countenance of Marco Fiore became convulsed. Every slightly feminine trace disappeared from his rather pale and delicate face, and the firm and obstinate lines of his profile and chin became more accentuated, manly and rough. His lips trembled as he spoke.
“Why do you name your husband? Why do you name him, Maria?”
“Because he is not dead, Marco; because he exists, because he lives,” she proclaimed imperiously, her large eyes flashing.
“I hate him. Don’t speak to me of him!” he exclaimed with agitation, rising and kicking the chair aside to walk about.
“But why do you hate him? Why? Tell me, tell me.”
“Because he is the only man of whom I can be, of whom I ought to be, jealous, Maria,” he exclaimed, beside himself with exasperation. Then Maria smiled joyfully, a smile which he did not observe.
“I renounced him, his name and his fortune for you,” she replied simply.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, still hot with anger, but somewhat distractedly.
“I do not regret it,” she replied, after an imperceptible moment of hesitation.
“But, Maria, I am sure he regrets you very much.”
“I am as certain as if he had told me, and I am certain he will get you back, Maria.”
“What does that matter? He will take you back to try to make you love him.”
“All those who love are mad,” murmured Marco Fiore very sadly.
Stupefied and suffering, she looked at him. Each looked at the other as if to recognise themselves. They were the same who, strangely, every day and every evening, scarcely found themselves together without, after a few minutes, involuntarily irritating with curious and cruel fingers the old wounds which seemed to be healing, which their restless and disturbed minds caused to bleed again.
Here she was, Donna Maria Guasco Simonetti, graceful and exquisite, she who had been the object of a thousand desires, repulsed by her serene austerity and boundless pride, who had suddenly loved Marco Fiore madly and faithfully for three years. Here she was in that house where she had come to live alone, after abandoning the conjugal abode for three years, to live apart in a strange, constant and ardent love, forgetful of every other thing. Here she was, ever more graceful in the plenitude of her womanly grace, in the atmosphere of exclusive luxury with which she was surrounded, and in garments which reflected her fascination.