"Why do you not answer?" he began afresh. "Do you think I should be coward enough to deny the truth? If I have been silent towards you so far, it was done to spare you; now that you know it, I will render account. You have been told of the young actress, to whom I owe the first incitement to work, my first success, and to-day's triumph. God knows how the connection between us has been represented to you, and naturally you look upon it as a crime worthy of death."
"No, but as a misfortune."
The tone of these words would surely have disarmed any one; even Reinhold's irritation could not resist it. He came nearer to her and took her hand.
"Poor child!" said he, pitifully. "It certainly was no happiness what your father's will decided for you. You, more than any other, required a husband who would work and strive from day to day in the quiet routine of daily life without even having a wish to step beyond it, and fate has chained you to a man whom it draws powerfully to another course. You are right; that is a misfortune for us both."
"That is to say, I am one for you," added the young wife, sadly. "She will, perhaps, know better how to bring you happiness."
Reinhold let her hand fall and stepped back. "You are mistaken," he replied, almost rudely, "and quite misconstrue the connection between Signora Biancona and myself. It has been purely ideal from the beginning, and is so still at this moment. Whoever told you differently is a liar."
At the first words, Ella seemed to breathe more easily, but at the following her heart contracted as if with cramp. She knew her husband was incapable of speaking a falsehood, least of all at such a moment, and he told her the connection was spiritual. That it was so still she did not doubt, but how long would it be so? This evening, in the theatre, she had seen the flash of those demon-like eyes, which nothing could resist; had seen how that woman, in her part, had run through the whole scale of feelings to the greatest passion; how this passion carried away the audience to a perfect storm of approbation; and she could easily tell herself that if it had pleased the Italian so far only to be the gracious goddess whose hand had led the young composer into the realms of art, the hour was sure to come in which she would wish to be more to him.
"I love Beatrice," continued Reinhold, with a cruelty of which he seemed to have no real conception; "but this love does not injure nor wound any of your rights. It only concerns music, as whose embodied genius she met me, concerns the best and highest in my life, the ideal--"
"And what is left for your wife, then?" interrupted Ella.
He remained silent, struck dumb. This question, simple as it was, sounded nevertheless peculiar from the lips of his wife, deemed so stupid. It was a matter of course, that she should be satisfied with what still remained--the name she bore and the child, whose mother she was. Strange to say, she did not appear inclined to understand this, and Reinhold became quite silent at the quiet but yet annihilating reproach of the question.