“Why do you name your husband? Why do you name him, Maria?”
“Because he is not dead, Marco; because he exists, because he lives,” she proclaimed imperiously, her large eyes flashing.
“I hate him. Don’t speak to me of him!” he exclaimed with agitation, rising and kicking the chair aside to walk about.
“But why do you hate him? Why? Tell me, tell me.”
“Because he is the only man of whom I can be, of whom I ought to be, jealous, Maria,” he exclaimed, beside himself with exasperation. Then Maria smiled joyfully, a smile which he did not observe.
“I renounced him, his name and his fortune for you,” she replied simply.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, still hot with anger, but somewhat distractedly.
“I do not regret it,” she replied, after an imperceptible moment of hesitation.
“But, Maria, I am sure he regrets you very much.”
“No.”