‘Well, then—mine.’
I drew down my veil; I could scarcely keep dry eyes.
‘Why are you so hard, Carlotta?’ he cried. ‘I can’t understand you. I never could. But you’ll kill me—that’s what you’ll do.’
Impulsively I leaned forward; and he seized my hand. Our antagonism melted in tears. Oh the cruel joy of that moment! Who will dare to say that the spirit cannot burn with pleasure while drowning in grief? Or that tragedy may not be the highest bliss? That instant of renunciation was our true marriage. I realize it now—a union that nothing can soil nor impair.
‘I love you; you are fast and fast in my heart,’ I murmured. ‘But you must go back to Mary. There is nothing else.’
And I withdrew my hand.
He shook his head.
‘You’ve no right, my dearest, to tell me to go back to Mary. I cannot.’
‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I have only the right to ask you to leave me.’
‘Then there is no hope?’