She was breaking down, for she was worn-out and fearfully overwrought. Then Monsignor Saracinesca spoke quietly, but in a tone of absolute authority.
‘Tell me nothing more,’ he said. ‘This is not a confession, and I cannot allow you to go on. Try to get control of yourself so that you may go home quietly.’
He rose as he spoke, but she stretched her hand out across the table to stop him.
‘No—please don’t go away! I have said I forgive him—if there is anything to forgive—may I say that he is to come back? May I see him sometimes? We are so sure of ourselves, he and I, after all these years——’
Monsignor Saracinesca’s brows bent with a little severity.
‘Montalto is living,’ he said, ‘and he is a broken-hearted man. Since you and he parted you have borne his name as honourably as you could, you have done what was in your power to atone for your fault by not seeing your lover. I am frank, you see. Montalto knows how you have lived and is not unjust nor ungrateful. But for his mother, I think a reconciliation would be possible.’
Maria started at the words, and turned even paler than before.
‘A reconciliation!’ she cried in a low and frightened voice.
‘Yes,’ answered Don Ippolito, who had resumed his seat. ‘He loves you still. It is my firm belief that he has never bestowed a thought on any other woman since he first wished to marry you. I know beyond all doubt that since he left you he has led a life such as few men of the world ever lead. No doubt he has his defects, as a man of the world. I daresay he is not one of those men with whom it is easy to live, and he is a melancholy and depressing person. But so far as the rest is concerned——’
He stopped, feeling that he was perhaps defending his friend too warmly. Maria had bent her head again, and sat with her hands lying dejectedly on her knees.