‘Yes,’ Maria replied, repeating his words, ‘he is in Rome again.’
He thought he had made it easy for her to say more, if she wished to tell all, but she was silent. He had heard Montalto’s story from beginning to end, and upon that he judged her, of course, as she had allowed herself to be judged by her husband, without the least suggestion of defence. After all, how could either of the two men judge her otherwise? How could she tell now what she had once called the truth? How near the truth was it? She would put her question as best she could.
‘My excuse is that we loved each other very, very much,’ she said in a low and timid voice. ‘It was long before I married,’ she added, a little more firmly, for she was not ashamed of that. ‘But we parted’—her voice sank to a whisper—‘we parted when it was too late. And we have never met, nor ever written one word to each other since.’
As she pronounced the last sentence she raised her head again, for she knew what that separation had cost, in spite of all—in spite of what she had called the truth.
‘That was right,’ Don Ippolito said. ‘That was your duty; but it was brave of you both to do it.’ She felt encouraged.
‘And now he is in Rome again,’ she went on. ‘He has come on leave for a few days. He came on purpose to ask my forgiveness, after all these years, because there was something to forgive—at least—he thought there was——’
She broke off, quite unable to go on.
‘You were very young,’ suggested Don Ippolito, helping her. ‘You had no experience of the world. Such a man would have a very great advantage over a very young woman who had been attached to him when a girl and was unhappily married.’
But Maria had clasped her hands desperately tight together before her on the edge of the table, and she bent down now and pressed her forehead upon them. She spoke in broken words.
‘No, no! I know it now! It was not—not what I thought—oh, I can’t tell you! I can’t, I can’t!’