“Gaspare.”
“Ah!”
Not another word passed between the two women.
Beginning her first day after the pardon, Maria read in her mind these clear and indelible words: “He has pardoned me, but he avoids me; he has pardoned me, but he hates me; he has pardoned me, but he despises me.” And all sense of life was lost within her.
VI
Vittoria Fiore was alone in her room at the Hôtel de la Paix, dressed ready to go out. She went to and fro from the balcony to the door, waiting for her husband who was nearly an hour late, and every time she withdrew from the balcony overlooking the white Lungarno and the river, and went towards the door to peep into the corridor, to see if Marco were coming, a sorrowful impatience contracted her youthful figure. Passing before a large mirror, two or three times she threw a rapid glance at herself, then shook her head sadly. On the face of the newly made bride there was not shining that smile of gentle delight, of mutual love which trusts in a long future of serene joy. She was thoughtful, agitated, and sometimes completely tormented, as if her inmost soul could find no peace.
But Marco did not return. Where was he then? For an instant the spasm of impatience was so strong that her pale face became livid, and she placed her hand to her heart, as if she felt it stopping. A step sounded in the corridor. In an instant the lines of her face composed themselves, a light wave of blood mounted to her cheeks. The expression of her face became so tranquil and serene that it would have deceived the most expert eye. To complete the deception she pretended to be buttoning her glove.
Marco entered with a great bunch of white lilies and red velvety roses, which shed their delicate fragrance in the room.
“I had to wait a little, Vittoria,” he said; “but in compensation I have brought you these flowers.”
“I have waited a little, but I didn’t notice it,” she replied untruthfully.