The bride humbly and weakly replied, opening her arms—
“I don’t know; I don’t know.”
“You deceive yourself,” resumed the great lady slowly, “Marco is fond of you.”
A great disillusion showed itself on Vittoria’s face, a disillusion mixed with fear and sadness.
“Isn’t it enough for you, my daughter, that he is fond of you? What do you want more? What are you desiring? What are you seeking?”
“Oh, aunt, aunt,” she ventured to cry in the sudden familiarity of suffering, “I want him to love me, to love me with ardour and passion.”
“As the other, in fact.”
“As the other,” the unhappy woman ventured to cry.
“That is impossible,” stated the Duchess.
“Impossible, impossible?” and she placed her two little hands together convulsively.