“It is so.”
The physiognomy of Marco Fiore became transfigured. A convulsion of bitterness, of suffering, of fury shook it continuously; that slightly morbid insouciance, which composed its poetry together with its youth, had quite vanished, showing only a face of energy, crossed by sentiments more unrestrainedly virile.
“And your husband, whom they say is a man of honour, would he forget the dishonour?”
“He is ready to forget it.”
“Would a gentleman forget an offence so open and so cruel?”
“He has been ready, he says, for a long time to pardon.”
“But why? Is he a rascal perhaps? Is he a saint perhaps? Has he blood in his impoverished veins? Has he a heart in that money-grubbing breast of his?”
“He says that he has suffered; that he is suffering.”
“But why does he suffer?—through amour propre? through pride? through envy? through punctiliousness?”
She was silent. He, as one mad, continued—