“I don’t love him, and I can’t love him again. I am exhausted. My heart has lived as much as it can, and it can do no more. But I can, however, have great pity for him, great sweetness, and great friendship to make him forget the torture I have inflicted on him.”
Again, before the force of energy which was exalting her and with which she was struggling, Marco felt a great emotion invade him, a melancholy enthusiasm for the moral martyrdom which she was enduring, and forgot his own immense pain. And anew a lament escaped his lips.
“Poor Maria!”
“Ah, pity me, pity me; you are right!” she cried, twisting her hands in agitation, “I am an unfortunate.”
“We are two unfortunates!” he exclaimed, taking her to his arms and kissing her on her hair and eyes.
She repelled him, and drying her tears composed herself.
But he, as he felt the moments of their last meeting flying, and the unsupportable pain of a farewell which was rending his soul, resisted the more.
“Maria, Maria, let us remain together, I implore you.”
“No, Marco, no.”
“I can’t live without you, my love.”