Then followed a somewhat irreverent fancy, one of many such born in Luisa's brain—a strange story of the little angel who polishes the boots in heaven, and who one day let great-grandfather's boot fall to the earth while attempting to grab a bit of golden bread he had been forbidden to touch. Maria brightened visibly; she laughed and interrupted her mother with a hundred questions concerning the other boot that was still in heaven. What would her great-grandfather do with that? Her mother replied that he would apply it from behind to the Emperor of Austria, and push him out of heaven with it, if he chanced to meet him there.
Just at that moment Franco entered.
Luisa at once saw signs of storm on his brow and in his eyes.
"Well?" she questioned. Franco answered shortly: "Put Maria to bed."
Luisa observed that she had kept the child up waiting for him, that she might spend a little time with him. "I tell you to put her to bed!" Franco said, so harshly that Maria began to cry. Luisa flushed, but was silent. Lighting a candle she took the child in her arms and silently held her up that her father might give her a kiss. He did so coldly, and then Luisa carried her away. Franco did not follow her. The sight of the boot irritated him, and he threw it upon the floor. Then he sat down, planted his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands.
The bitter thought that Luisa was Gilardoni's accomplice had immediately flashed into his mind while Pasotti was talking, and with it there came also the recollection of that "Why be silent?" of that "Enough!" and of the child's story. He felt as if he had a whirlwind within him, in which this idea was being continually caught up and whirled away, to reappear again farther down, ever nearer the heart.
"Well?" Luisa once more asked, as she entered the room. Franco looked at her a moment in silence, scrutinising her closely. Then he rose and seized her hands. "Tell me if you know anything?" said he. She guessed his meaning, but that look and manner offended her. "What do you mean?" she exclaimed, her face aflame. "Why do you ask in that way?" "Ah! you do know!" cried Franco flinging away her hands, and raising his arms with a despairing gesture.
She foresaw what was coming—his suspicion of her complicity with Gilardoni, her denial, and the mortal irremediable offence Franco would be offering her if, in his wrath, he refused to trust her word, and she clasped her hands in terror. "No, Franco! No, Franco!" she murmured softly, and threw her arms about his neck, striving to close his lips with kisses. But he misunderstood her, believed she was seeking forgiveness, and pushed her aside. "I know! Yes, I know!" she cried, once more casting herself passionately upon his breast. "But I found out afterwards, when it was already done, and I was as indignant as you are, even more indignant!" But Franco was too anxious to give vent to his feelings, too anxious to offend. "How can I know you are speaking the truth?" he exclaimed. She started back with a cry, and then once more coming a step nearer, she held out her arms to him. "No, no!" she entreated in agony, "Tell me you believe me! Tell me so now, for if you do not say so, you don't know, you can't realise what will happen!"
"What is it I can't realise?"
"You don't know me as I am, for though I may love you still, I can never again be a wife to you, and though I may suffer deeply, I shall never change, never again. Do you realise what that means, never again?"