“She was wrong,” replied Marco gravely; “she had to love—that was all—blindly and humbly. Wherefore Elsa’s imperfect and incomplete love led her to deception, to betrayal, and to abandonment.”
Vittoria bit her little lip silently, as if to restrain a secret sigh.
“Haven’t you ever heard Lohengrin, little Vittoria?” murmured Marco, as if speaking to an imaginary being; “at a certain point, in the nuptial chamber, near his loving and faithful wife, the valiant knight discovers the ambuscade of which Elsa is herself an accomplice. Have you never heard, Vittoria, Lohengrin’s lament, deceived and betrayed an hour after the marriage? His dumb cry of delusion and bitterness? The dream of love was over and had vanished. Vittoria, I never could hear that cry without feeling my heart break.”
“That is why, Marco, you suffered when that music accompanied us from the church?”
“That is why, Vittoria.”
“But why was that wedding march played? It is a funeral march, Marco. Why did they play it?” she asked convulsively, bending over him.
“I don’t know,” he replied desolately.
II
After descending from the carriage in the noisy station among the crowd which the train from Florence was pouring forth, Donna Maria hesitated a moment, and behind her soft black veil her eyes seemed to be looking for some one. Her maid, carrying shawls and parcels, stood a few steps away from her. Discovering no one she made a resolute movement and opened a way for herself through the crowd, when a gentleman approached and greeted her, taking her hand to kiss it.
“Welcome, Donna Maria.”