“You will marry Vittoria Casalta, Marco.”
“No.”
“You will marry her; she loves you.”
“I don’t love her.”
“What does it matter? Thousands of marriages are made so. She has loved you for years, and you were betrothed. You have betrayed her. She has waited, and she is a patient creature. She has waited, and, see, she was right to wait.”
“I can’t marry her with a heart devastated by passion, with an unconsolable regret.”
“Marco, hearts are healed. Yours will heal. Regrets go to sleep at the bottom of the soul, and one day you will wake up consoled. You ought to marry Vittoria Casalta.”
“Ought I to?”
“You ought to. She has suffered for you. She doesn’t deserve to suffer. She is good, they say; I don’t know. Anyhow, she has suffered. Since your heart is empty, and your spirit has no goal, since your soul has no pasture, fill your heart with charity towards a sufferer, give an affectionate scope to your existence, create a pleasing duty of reparation, and heal the wounds you have made by marrying Vittoria Casalta.”
Maria spoke in a low voice, slowly, but suggestively and persuasively. Marco’s face grew paler and his lips were white. He recognised that an immense effort was uplifting her courage to say all that she was saying, and he regarded her with profound admiration as he touched her hand lightly to kiss it, which he did almost timorously. A cry escaped his breast.