‘I doubt it,’ replied the Marchesa, but her crossed arms relaxed a little, and she settled herself to listen to her friend’s story.
Maria spoke quietly at first. She did not mean to tell all when she began, but by degrees she felt that nothing less than the whole truth could justify her in her friend’s eyes. She talked on nervously then, sometimes in a tone of passionate regret, sometimes in a strain of exaltation; she spoke very truthfully of facts, she even told of her interview with Monsignor Saracinesca and of her confession to Padre Bonaventura, the Capuchin monk, and all this was clear enough. It was when she gave the rein to her imagination and described the ideal life of innocent love and trustfulness which she hoped to lead with Baldassare that Giuliana stopped her abruptly.
‘It is not possible,’ said the Marchesa. ‘You should not think of such things. One can forgive a single fault in those one is very fond of, but to forgive another is quite a different matter!’
‘There is no danger,’ Maria answered confidently. ‘But as for forgiving, the Bible says something about seventy times seven!’ she smiled.
‘My dear,’ rejoined Giuliana, with the unconscious humour of a virtue beyond all attack, ‘seventy times seven would be a great many, in practice. Besides, there is danger, I am sure. A woman capable of rising to the moral height you talk of must certainly feel an insurmountable horror of seeing the other man as long as her husband is alive. If she can forgive herself and him, she has not a very delicate conscience, it seems to me! She might possibly see him once, but after that she would beg him to stay away, out of respect for her absent husband, against whom any more meetings would be an offence. And besides, every one knows that there is nothing more absolutely false, and ridiculous, and impossible than a friendship based on love! I’m sorry if you do not like what I say, Maria, but I tell you just what I think!’
‘You do, indeed!’ answered the younger woman, in a hurt tone.
‘I cannot help it,’ said Giuliana. ‘You have told me some things about yourself this evening which I never dreamt of, but nothing you have told me has had any effect on what I thought from the first. You are doing very wrong in letting Castiglione come back. You ought never to see him while your husband is alive. That is what I think, and I shall never say it again, for it is of no use to give the same advice more than once.’
Giuliana rose to go home, for it was half-past ten. Her face was grave and calm, and a little severe. Maria rose too, feeling as if a conflict had begun which must in the end force her to give up either Giuliana or Castiglione.
‘Giuliana,’ she said sadly, ‘you will not throw over our friendship because you do not approve of everything I do, will you?’