"But you were not sure of it yourself—"
"Since you had told me it was true, I believed it," he answered simply.
"Thank you, dear—"
"No. Do not thank me for it. I could not help myself. I knew that you were sure—are you sure of something else, Corona? Are you as certain as you were of that?"
"How can you ask? But you are right—you have the right to doubt me. You will not, though, will you? Hear me, dear, while I tell you the whole story."
She slipped from her chair and knelt before him, as though she were to make a confession. Then she took his hands and looked up lovingly into his face. The truth rose in her eyes.
"Forgive me, Giovanni. Yes, you have much to forgive. I did not know myself. When you doubted me, I felt as though I had nothing left in life, as though you would never again believe in me. I thought I did not love you. I was wrong. It was only my miserable vanity that was wounded, and that hurt me so. I felt that my love was dead, that you yourself were dead and that another man had taken your place. Ah, I could have helped it! Had I known you better, dear, had I been less mistaken in myself, all would have been different. But I was foolish—no, I was unhappy. Everything was dark and dreadful. Oh, my darling, I thought I could tell what I felt—I cannot! Forgive me, only forgive me, and love me as you did long ago. I will never leave you, not if you stay here for ever, only let me love you as I will!"
"It is not for me to forgive, sweetheart," said Giovanni, bending down and kissing her sweet dark hair. "It is for you—"
"But I would so much rather think it my fault, dear," she answered, drawing his face down to hers. It was a very womanly impulse that made her take the blame upon herself.
"You must not think anything so unreasonable, Corona. I brought all the harm that came, from the first moment."