"Very well, but grant me another favor in place of that; consent to leave Venice to-morrow."
"With all my heart. What do I care for Venice and all the rest? In heaven's name, don't believe me when I express regret for the past; it is irritation or madness that makes me speak so! The past! merciful heaven! Do you not know how many reasons I have for hating it? See how it has shattered me! How could I have the strength to grasp it again if it were given back to me?"
I kissed Juliette's hand to thank her for the effort she made in speaking thus, but I was not convinced; she had given me no satisfactory answer. I resumed my melancholy promenade about the room.
The sirocco had sprung up and dried the pavement in an instant. The city had become resonant once more as it ordinarily is, and the thousand sounds of the festival reached our ears: the hoarse song of the tipsy gondoliers, the hooting of the masks coming from the cafés and guying the passers-by, the plash of oars in the canal. The guns of the frigate bade good-night to the echoes of the lagunes, which made answer like a discharge of artillery. The Austrian drum mingled its brutal roll, and the bell of St. Mark's gave forth a doleful sound.
A ghastly depression seized upon me. The candles, burning low, set fire to their green paper ruffles and cast a livid light upon the objects in the room. Everything assumed imaginary forms and made imaginary noises, to my disturbed senses. Juliette, lying on the sofa and swathed in fur and silk, seemed to me like a corpse wrapped in its shroud. The songs and laughter out of doors produced upon me the effect of shrieks of distress, and every gondola that glided under the marble bridge below my window suggested the idea of a drowning man struggling with the waves and death. Finally, I had none but thoughts of despair and death in my head, and I could not raise the weight which was crushing my breast.
At last, however, I succeeded in calming myself and reflected somewhat less wildly. I admitted to myself that Juliette's cure was progressing very slowly, and that, notwithstanding all the sacrifices in my favor which gratitude had wrung from her, her heart was almost as sick as at the very first. This long-continued and bitter regret for a love so unworthily bestowed seemed inexplicable to me, and I sought the cause in the powerlessness of my affection. It must be, I thought, that my character inspires an insurmountable repugnance which she dares not avow to me. Perhaps the life I lead is unpleasant to her, and yet I have made my habits conform to hers. Leoni used to take her constantly from city to city. I have kept her travelling for two years, forming no ties anywhere, and never delaying for an instant to leave the place where I detected the faintest sign of ennui on her face. And yet she is melancholy, that is certain; nothing amuses her, and it is only from consideration for me that she deigns sometimes to smile. Not one of the things that ordinarily give pleasure to women has any influence on this sorrow of hers; it is a rock that nothing can shake, a diamond that nothing can dim. Poor Juliette! What strength in your weakness! what desperate resistance in your inertia!
I had unconsciously raised my voice until I expressed my troubles aloud. Juliette had raised herself on one arm and was listening to me sadly, leaning forward on the cushions.
"Listen to me," I said, walking to her side, "I have just imagined a new cause for your unhappiness. I have repressed it too much, you have forced it back into your heart too much, I have dreaded like a coward to see that sore, the sight of which tears my heart; and you, through generosity, have concealed it from me. Your wound, thus neglected and abandoned, has become more inflamed every day, whereas I should have dressed it and poured balm upon it. I have done wrong, Juliette. You must show me your sorrow, you must pour it out in my bosom, you must talk to me about your past sufferings, tell me of your life from moment to moment, name my enemy to me. Yes, you must. Just now you said something to me that I shall not forget; you implored me to let you hear his name at least. Very well! let us pronounce it together, that accursed name that burns your tongue and your heart. Let us talk of Leoni."
Juliette's eyes shone with an involuntary gleam. I felt a terrible pang; but I conquered my suffering and asked her if she approved my plan.
"Yes," she said with a serious air, "I believe that you are right. You see, my breast is often filled with sobs; the fear of distressing you keeps me from giving them vent, and I pile up treasures of grief in my bosom. If I dared to display my feelings before you, I believe that I should suffer less. My sorrow is like a perfume that is kept always confined in a tightly closed box; open the box and it soon escapes. If I could talk constantly about Leoni and tell of the most trivial incidents of our love, I should bring under my eyes at the same moment all the good and all the harm he did me; whereas your aversion often seems to me unjust, and in the secret depths of my heart I make excuses for injuries which, if told by another, would be revolting to me."