“You have done me no wrong; the harm was there!” she cried, striking her breast,—“within me!”
“Probably some foolish fancy, such as that of leaving my house suddenly, because your mistaken sense of honor made you think yourself in my way.”
“Not mistaken,” she replied. “I know what was in your thoughts. If only on account of what you had done for me, I knew I could never aspire to your esteem.”
“But, my dear Luigia, I call such ideas absurd. Have I ever shown you any want of consideration? How could I? Your conduct has always been exemplary.”
“Yes, I tried to do everything that would give you a good opinion of me; but I was none the less the widow of Benedetto.”
“What! can you suppose that that misfortune, the result of a just vengeance—”
“Ah! no, it is not the death of that man that lowered me in your eyes; on the contrary. But I had been the wife of a buffoon, of a police-spy, of a base man, ready to sell me to any one who would give him money.”
“As long as that situation lasted, I thought you deeply to be pitied; but despised, never!”
“And,” continued the Italian, more excitedly, “we had lived two years under the same roof, you and I alone.”
“Yes, and I found my comfort in it.”