“Madame la comtesse,” said Pascal, “you know what an oath is to a mountaineer. Well, I have broken my oath. You also know the vengeance of a Sicilian. Well, I will renounce my vengeance and forget my oath. I ask only that all may be forgotten, and that you will not force me to remember it?”
“But if you should,” said the countess, “how would you act?”
“I do not wish to think upon the subject.”
“Then we must take our measures accordingly,” said the countess.
“I beg of you, madame la comtesse,” said Pascal, “to have pity on me; you see that I am doing all that I can to remain an honest man. Once engaged by the prince—once Teresa’s husband, I can answer for myself: otherwise I shall never return to Bauso.”
“It is impossible to do as you desire,” said the countess, decidedly.
“Countess,” said Pascal, earnestly, “you have loved?” Gemma smiled disdainfully. “You must know what jealousy is—you must know its sufferings, its maddening tortures. Well, I love Teresa—I am jealous of her; and I feel I should lose my senses if this marriage take place; and then—”
“Well, then—” said Gemma, in an agitated tone.
“Then, take heed’ I do not remember the galleys where my uncles are, the cage in which my father’s head is placed, and the grave where my mother sleeps!” At this instant a strange cry, which seemed to be a signal, was heard outside the window, and almost at the same instant a bell was rung.
“There is the prince,” said Gemma, regaining her confidence.