“And it will all be false, Marco, because we shall be again without passion, without love, without rapture.”
“That is so, Maria.”
“Shall we rehearse our comedy together, Marco,” she asked mournfully—“the comedy of love? Couldn’t we live like two companions, like two friends? Say, couldn’t we live so, at least without lying?”
“No, dear, no,” he resumed, with a weak, sorrowful smile, “it isn’t possible. You are a woman; I am a man. We are still young. What you say is impossible.”
“O Marco, without love?” she murmured, turning her head aside in shame.
He was silent, feeling that she was right. But he could not deceive her.
“Even this, dear lady mine, is a punishment.”
“O Marco, Marco!” she cried, leaning her head on his shoulder, and hiding her face in his breast.
He pressed her to himself sweetly, and kissed her on the eyes, which were red without weeping, and upon her pale face and lips.
“At last,” he said, “we shall find some sweetness in this expiation. My arms know you, Maria, and my breast is a haven for you. I know your arms, and I know I can sleep peacefully, if not ecstatically, on your heart.”