He turned, wringing his hands under a pain he could no longer resist.
“I saw your eyes, Maria; I saw his when you met at Casa Nerola. I saw all. And Vittoria Fiore, the poor unfortunate, saw you. She was as pale as death. This time, understand, I can’t endure the insult; I shall kill you and him. But endure this shame again—never, never!”
She made a supreme effort of courage, subduing her indignation, repressing it at the back of her atrociously offended mind. She remembered that she had returned home to be good, to be sweet, to restore peace and serenity there, to give back happiness to her husband, who had a right to it, to perform works of tenderness, even to the silence and death of her own heart.
“Emilio, Emilio,” she said softly, “tell me what I am to do to soften your mind and pacify your heart. You don’t believe me to-day, you must to-morrow. Tell me all. Shall we leave Rome together for ever?”
“No,” he replied gloomily; “I should think that you wanted to fly from Marco Fiore.”
“Shall we go for a long voyage together?”
“No; you have been everywhere together, that I know.”
“Do you want me to shut myself up at home, to see no one, as if I were dead?”
“No; I should think you were absorbed in memories of him.”
“Well, would you like us to lead a society life together, wild and full of pleasure?”