“Yes, yes,” I continued, more calmly; “you must not forget to pray for him—he was young and not prepared to die.”
My words had some of the desired effect upon her—for once her ready speech failed—she seemed as though she sought for some reply and found none. I still held her hands.
“Promise me!” I continued; “and at the same time pray for your dead husband! He and poor Ferrari were close friends, you know; it will be pious and kind of you to join their names in one petition addressed to Him ‘from whom no secrets are hid,’ and who reads with unerring eyes the purity of your intentions. Will you do it?”
She smiled, a forced, faint smile.
“I certainly will,” she replied, in a low voice; “I promise you.”
I released her hands—I was satisfied. If she dared to pray thus I felt—I knew that she would draw down upon her soul the redoubled wrath of Heaven; for I looked beyond the grave! The mere death of her body would be but a slight satisfaction to me; it was the utter destruction of her wicked soul that I sought. She should never repent, I swore; she should never have the chance of casting off her vileness as a serpent casts its skin, and, reclothing herself in innocence, presume to ask admittance into that Eternal Gloryland whither my little child had gone—never, never! No church should save her, no priest should absolve her—not while I lived!
She watched me as I fastened my coat and began to draw on my gloves.
“Are you going now?” she asked, somewhat timidly.
“Yes, I am going now, cara mia,” I said. “Why! what makes you look so pale?”
For she had suddenly turned very white.