“Now no longer,” she said, still as if in a dream.
“It is you who avoid her,” he said, trying to repair the mischief.
“It is I, yes,” she said, awakening suddenly, in a clear voice. “I did not wish her to cut me. The English are faithful, I know. But still she is an ambassadress and sees lots of people, even bad people.”
He shook his head melancholily, as if he thought, “What is to be done? These are fatal matters to discuss.”
“And you, Marco, why are you going?” Maria questioned, with an increase of hardness.
“But she has your sister-in-law for company?”
“Yes, Beatrice is accompanying her; but both have no escort.”
“I am sure,” resumed Maria, “you will meet some one at the English Embassy.”
“Vittoria Casalta, your former _fiancée_, the sister of your sister-in-law,” and an accent more ironical than disdainful pointed the sentence.
“No, Maria,” he said, at once becoming serious.
“What is this ‘_No_,’ Marco?” and she smiled more sarcastically; “what are you denying?”
“That Vittoria Casalta is going to the English Embassy, Maria.”
“Ah, you know that she is not going there!” and she laughed bitterly.
“Don’t torment yourself, don’t torment me, dear soul!” he said softly, tenderly drawing her to himself with his conquering sweetness and gentle grace.
Donna Maria let herself be drawn to him, no longer smiling, as if expecting some word or action. But neither action nor word came. After the tender admonition, as usual, a certain dryness rendered them dumb and motionless.
She, as usual, was the first to interrupt this state of mind.
“And then, Marco, how do you know that the fair Vittoria is not going to Lady Clairville’s?”
“Because she no longer goes into society, Maria.”
“Has she taken the veil?” she exclaimed, with a sarcastic smile.
“Almost. For that matter she never has loved the world.”
“I tell you Vittoria Casalta still loves you,” Maria murmured slowly as if she were speaking to herself, as if she were repeating to herself a thing said many times.
“She still loves you,” the woman repeated authoritatively, almost imperiously.
“There is only one woman who loves me, and she is you, Maria--you,” he replied, as if to finish the discussion.
She listened attentively from the very first words of the sentence, attentively as if to find in them a trace or a recollection of past things, but she did not hear there quite what she wished. The words were the same, but the voice was no longer the same which pronounced them, and no longer the same, perhaps, was the man who said them. A sense of delusion for an instant, only for an instant, was depicted on her face; an expression, however, which he did not notice.