“Yes, with him. What will he do when, according to you, I have returned to my husband? What will become of Marco?”
“He will be content to marry Vittoria Casalta. The girl has been waiting for him for three years.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, in a voice scarcely recognisable.
Without greeting or looking at him she turned her back, and went quickly round the corner of the portico.
Nor did Gianni Provana dare to follow her.
IV
Maria had searched for Marco Fiore for an hour in all the places she supposed he might be; at the great door of Palazzo Fiore, in the via Bocca di Leone, leaving him word scribbled in pencil on a small piece of paper; at the Hunt Club, which he sometimes looked into towards noon; at the fencing rooms in the via Muratte, where two or three times a week he used to undergo a long sword exercise.
Porters, butlers, servants had seen the beautiful and elegant lady, dressed in white, hidden behind a white veil, ask with insistence for the noble Marco Fiore and go away slowly, as if not convinced that he was not in one of those places. Towards noon, agitated and silent, consumed by her emotion, she entered the little villa at Santa Maria Maggiore, and there, at the threshold, was Marco, who had just arrived, with a slightly languid smile on his lips and the habitual softness in his eyes.
“Ah, Marco, Marco, I have looked for you everywhere,” she stammered in confusion, taking him by the hand.
“What is the matter?” he asked, a little surprised, scrutinising her face.