Of course, I was in love with her. But as yet, upon my conscience, I did not know it. I knew that I was tremendously fond of her, that I was never so happy as when in her presence, that I was always more or less unsatisfied and restless when out of it. I knew that I was always more or less unsatisfied and restless, too, when other men were hovering about her, when she was laughing and talking with other men. I knew that I wished to be her knight, her servant, to dedicate my existence to her welfare. But beyond that, I had not analysed my sentiment, nor given it a name.
And so, if you please, I was still able to go on prating to her of Elsie Milray!
However, there came a day when I ceased to prate of Elsie... It was during the Carnival. Miss Belmont had taken a room in the Corso, from the balcony of which, that afternoon, she and various of her friends had watched the merrymaking. The Contessa Bracca was expected, but the hours wore away, and she did not turn up. I waited for her, hoped for her, from minute to minute, to the last. Then I went home in a fine state of depression.
After dinner—and after much irresolution, ending in an abrupt resolve—I ventured to present myself at the Palazzo Stricci.
“I was alarmed about you. I was afraid you might be ill,” I explained. I felt a great rush of relief, of warmth and peace, at seeing her.
She was seated in a low easy-chair, by her writing-table, with a volume of the “Récit d’une Sour” open in her lap.
“No, I’m not ill,” she said, rising, and putting her book aside. “I’m not sorry you thought so, though, since it has procured me the pleasure of a visit from you,” she added, smiling, as she gave me her hand.
But her face was pale, her smile seemed like a pale light that just flickered on it for an instant, and went out.
I looked at her with anxiety. “You are ill,” I said. “There’s something the matter. What is it? Tell me.”