“Dead of love, or sorrow, or indifference,” he added, looking around, believing himself a prey to an hallucination.
“Or perhaps they had enough of life.”
“Everything could have happened here,” he continued dreamily, “a bloody duel, a murder ignored by all, a suicide which no one knew of. Doesn’t it cause you horror, sweet Maria?”
“Life is more difficult than death,” she replied, shaking her head.
He took her hand, covered with a white glove, and with a slow, familiar action took off the glove and kissed her fingers and palm two or three times.
“Maria,” he said, “I have thought much during the night. At first I was seized by a mortal disquietude, and I wanted to get up and leave, to look for you in the night. Then little by little I entered into a great peace, because I saw our way.”
“Our way?” she asked in agitation.
“Ours, Maria. It is the only way, and there is no choice but for you and me to follow it.”
“What are you saying, Marco?” she exclaimed, getting up.
With a gracious and tender action he made her sit down again.