"How is she to know that?"
"Why, I have told her so all along, and I shall never cease telling her so."
The King of Spades had a strong inclination to laugh, but he restrained himself, feeling quite ashamed of the impulse. Presently he murmured, as though in answer to some inward question: "It is all utter foolishness."
"Yes, of course," said Costantino. But all the time, he was thinking of Brontu Dejas, of his house with the portico, of his tancas and his flocks; and then of Giovanna's poverty. Alas! the knife was cutting deep into his heart now.
That very night he wrote a long letter to Giovanna, comforting her, and assuring her of his unshaken faith in the divine mercy. "It may be," he wrote, in the simple goodness of his heart, "that God wishes to prove us still further, and so has taken from us the offspring that we conceived in sin; may his will be done! But now, a presentiment tells me that the hour of my restoration to liberty is at hand." He considered long whether or no to tell her of the dreadful thing hinted at by the ex-marshal, and thought himself quite shrewd and cunning when he decided it would be better to let her think that he did not so much as know of the existence of that infernal law.
His letter despatched, he felt more tranquil. But a little worm had begun to gnaw and gnaw in his brain. The ex-marshal, moreover, from that day on, with a pity that was heartless in its operations, never ceased to instil the subtle poison into his veins. He must become accustomed to the idea, thought this diplomatist to himself, else the poor, simple soul will die of heartbreak. There were times, however, when he thought that it might be better, after all, to let him die, and have done with it. Then, remembering all his promises about obtaining a pardon, he would pretend to himself that he was really going to do this, and continue the torture so that his victim might survive the shock when news of the divorce actually came. He had no doubt that his friend's wife was seriously contemplating the step, and it made him angry to hear Costantino speak affectionately of her.
"My dear fellow," said he one October day, puffing as usual, "you don't know women. Empty jugs, that's what they are; nothing but empty jugs! I was once engaged to be married myself. You can hardly believe it? Well, I can hardly believe it either. What then? Nothing, except that she betrayed me before I had even married her, and—that you irritate me beyond measure. Here is your wife in an altogether different situation; she is young and poor, and has blood in her veins—she has blood in her veins, I suppose, hasn't she? Well, if this Dejas fellow wants her to marry him, I say she would be a great goose not to do it."
"Dejas! Why—what—who told you?" stammered Costantino in amazement.
"Oh! didn't you tell me yourself?"
Costantino thought he most certainly had not, but then his mind had been in such a confused state for some time back—but merciful God! Dear San Costantino! How had he ever come to do such a thing? What had made him utter that man's name?