The sudden entrance of my husband interrupted us, as I was about asking some question about the unhappy Isodore. At the sight of him, notwithstanding the injury I was satisfied he had done that poor woman, the thousand fascinating remembrances of the last six months crowded fast upon me; and, in looking on his fair face, whatever wickedness that face concealed, I felt I loved him still. It was a delusion, when I imagined I could so quickly learn to hate him. In fact, the transitions of human feelings are like the seasons of the year, so gradually do we pass from one line of feeling to the other extreme, that we are ourselves unconscious when the end is attained. Thus it was with me; I did finally consummate the climax of indifference and contempt towards my husband, but not then: I had not reached it then.
Pasiphae made a low obeisance to her stern master, and left us alone.
As usual, Rinaldo kissed me; I submitted to the caress without returning it: noticing my coldness, a cloud gathered on his brow.
“You receive me very indifferently, Genevra, on my return from a perilous bear hunt.”
“I feel indifferent at this moment, Rinaldo.’
“Pray, may I inquire, signora, the cause of this change?” said he, and drew his stately figure to its full height, and regarded me searchingly.
“I can easily explain it, monsieur: I have been in the right wing of the castle, and have seen the lunatic you keep shut up there, Lady Isodore.”
He started back, as if shot; then rage shone in his eyes, and he angrily exclaimed,
“You have been to those deserted apartments: how dared you go there, what took you there?”
“My feet, of course, were the mechanical operators on the occasion, monsieur,” answered I, derisively; “but curiosity was the only motive I had at first, till gaining access, I beheld the victim of your cruelty.”