“No, no. We should meet him every day, every evening, and I should commit a crime, Maria,” and the fixed idea returned to him.
She felt lost for a moment.
“Then what am I to do?”
“There is one only means,” he replied, drawing much nearer to her, speaking with his hot breath in her face.
“What is it?”
“To love me as you loved him.”
The woman frowned two or three times without replying.
“I want to be loved passionately by you, do you understand? You must love me with passion as you loved Marco, as I love you. Have you understood? No more of this pale and flaccid affection, this loving friendship, which I despise and which exasperates me to frenzy. It must be passion. Have you perfectly understood me?”
She stood cold and rigid with staring eyes; but made no reply.
“You want to love me, don’t you? I am your husband, who spoke the first words of love to you, who gave you the first kiss. Remember, remember, you who want to love me. You must love me as I have loved you. Speak; reply.”