He did not speak. He did not think. It seemed as if his whole life had come to a halt.
It was Mercedes who spoke first. She had watched him wonderingly after her revelation. His dark face, stern and set, told her nothing.
“What—you think about it?” she said, at last. Her voice made him shiver like the touch of cold steel before the cut.
“I? I do not know,” he stammered. “Of course, it all seems very strange to you. But you must not think about it.”
In his perturbation, the instinct to protect this weak woman, who by some law not understood by science had suffered in dreams on his account, mastered all selfish emotion.
“I assure you,” he said, with a valiant attempt at a smile, “that the best thing you can do is to forget all about these dreams. I will give you a book about dreams, a book dry and hard to read perhaps, but which will make you feel happier on the subject.”
“But”—she began—“why—why—should I like you so much—why should the man of my dream be you?”
How could the wife of Prince Andriocchi and the constant companion of his friend the count, contrive, being no actress, to look into his face with infantine innocence as Mercedes looked now? That look made him think better of those two men.
“That—belongs to a branch of a subject I have not studied,” he said, hoping she did not notice the guilty flush which suddenly rose to his face. “I will think over all you have said to me to-night, and will tell you my opinion next time I see you,” he added, rising.
“Oh!” She looked disappointed. “When—when will that be?” She spoke anxiously. “You see how well being with you makes me! Let it be soon!” she urged.