“Like your husband, for that matter,” added Provana.
“It is all immensely sad,” she concluded bitterly.
“The fault is neither yours nor Marco’s,” said Provana, with a sneer.
“You can only smile or laugh at all this,” and she glanced at him with disdain.
“Better to smile or laugh, Donna Maria. I am an optimist in my cynicism. Everything will gradually and slowly settle down.”
“How?” she asked, not without anxiety.
“Vittoria and Marco will end by adapting themselves to each other. He will have a son—perhaps two or three—and she will not bother any more about her husband. Marco will be older, and a monotonous frequenter of the club, the races, and other noble pursuits. Perhaps he will have a mistress or two whom he will not love, since he who has loved cannot love another woman with passion.”
“And here?” she asked, with a mocking laugh.
“Here, too, time will do its work. Emilio’s pardon will be, shall we say—active. He will love you tranquilly and faithfully as formerly, and you will again be an exemplary couple. Remorse will have ceased to bite yours and Marco’s heart; you may yet be two beautiful great souls. The years will be passed, and the four of you will even be able to see each other tranquilly.”
A strident and sardonic laugh punctuated the discourse, while he replaced his monocle in its orbit elegantly.