Lorenza Feliciani was his wife, but she railed at him for keeping her a prisoner, and a slave, and envied the fate of wild birds.
It was clear that this frail and irritable creature took a large place in his bosom if not in his life.
“Lorenza,” he softly pleaded, “why do you, my darling, show this hostility and resistance? Why will you not live with one who loves you beyond expression as a sweet and devoted wife? Then would you have nothing farther to long for, free to bloom in the sunshine like the flowers and spread your wings like the birds you envy. We might go about in company where the fictitious sun, artificial light, glows on the assemblies of society. You would be happy according to your tastes and make me happy in my own way. Why will you not partake of this pleasure, Lorenza, when you have beauty to make all women jealous?”
“Because you horrify me—you are not religious, and you work your will by the black art!” replied the woman haughtily.
“Then live as you condemn yourself,” he replied with a look of anger and pity; “and do not complain at what your pride earns you.”
“I should not complain if you would only leave me alone and not force me to speak to you. Let me die in my cage, for I will not sing to you.”
“You are mad,” said Balsamo with an effort and trying to smile; “for you know that you shall not die while I am at hand to guard and heal you.”
“You will not heal me on the day when you find me hanging at my window bars,” she screamed.
He shuddered.
“Or stabbed to the heart by this dagger.”