Here Nina opened her eyes, and looked at us with piteous plaintiveness, while her bosom heaved with those long, deep sighs which are the finishing chords of the Sonata Hysteria.
“You are better, I trust?” continued the nun, without any sympathy in her monotonous accents, and addressing her with some reserve. “You have greatly alarmed the Count Oliva.”
“I am sorry—” began Nina, feebly.
I hastened to her side.
“Pray do not speak of it!” I urged, forcing something like a lover’s ardor into my voice. “I regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune to have hands like those of your late husband! I assure you I am quite miserable about it. Can you forgive me?”
She was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she had behaved somewhat foolishly. She smiled a weak pale smile; but she looked very scared, worn and ill. She rose from her chair slowly and languidly.
“I think I will go to my room,” she said, not regarding Mère Marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering coldly on her still breast.
“Good-bye, Cesare! Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from Avellino.”
I took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently with my lips. She turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous idea seemed to enter her mind. She looked at Madame la Vicaire and then came back to me.
“Addio, amor mio!” she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately.