“You, Genevra, you, to pry into my secret affairs: you, whom I have taken from a disgraceful profession, and elevated in rank to any lady in the land, to talk to me of cruelty;” and foaming with rage he tore up and down the room like a madman.
“Would, monsieur, for my peace of mind, my happiness, that you could undo what you consider so great an honor, and restore me to that ‘disgraceful profession,’ which I have every reason to regret having left for the arms of a libertine; and a home that has been desecrated by wanton violence. Yes, when the night before last I went to those rooms, and gazed with feelings of intense pity upon that forlorn being, I plainly beheld the life you have hitherto led, and to which you will of course return, after the novelty of my love has worn away. Oh, little did I think, when I pledged you my whole heart and soul at the altar, little did I dream that my affection would be thus requited by living witnesses of shame and horror like this.”
I felt excited to a terrible degree: the recollection of her injuries, and my own shame, had excited me to a point I should, ordinarily, have believed myself incapable of: with his arms folded and head depressed, my husband contemplated me.
“If you have finished, signora, I should like to take the liberty of speaking,” said he, ironically.
“No, I have not done; I never could find words sufficiently strong to express my disgust and horror of such actions. Other women, perhaps, creatures of sensual, vulgar souls, might feel jealous of the husband’s love, forgetting the villany extended to the betrayed one; but I do not. I blame you, not her—whoever she may have been, whatever she may have done.”
“Will you hear me, lady?” again demanded he, in the same cool tone as before.
“Yes, monsieur; speak on. I have expressed my thoughts: now speak yours.”
Haughtily I flung myself on a couch, and, looking him in the face, awaited his remarks.
“The unfortunate woman you have seen,” said Monsieur de Serval—endeavoring to compose his features and his voice to calmness—“that unfortunate is a Spanish woman, from Madrid—her name is Lady Isodore Dosamados—she was of a noble, but impoverished family: when I first became her lover, I never enticed her from habits of morality; she voluntarily became my companion. When I passed through Spain, on my return to Italy, she attached herself to me, and I brought her here: it was her own jealous temper, exasperating my irritable one, which brought her to her present condition. If she chose to excite me to a quarrel, and work upon my feelings until, losing all consciousness, I inflicted a blow that crazed her, it was her own fault; I did not intend to harm her; but immoral women, when enraged, are more like wild beasts than human beings: thus it was with her. I have provided for her during her insanity, and will continue to do so as long as her wretched life continues.”
“I do not believe all you wish to impress me with as truth, in regard to your moderation and kindness to her,” I replied, as he paused, evidently expecting me to say something. “I don’t believe all you say; for Pasiphae”—I stopped abruptly, remembering my promise not to implicate her.