“Haven’t you something to see about for your departure? Go and see to it; leave me your wife and return for her.”
Without saying a word he bowed in obedience, and kissed the Duchess’s hand covered with large emerald and topaz rings. He kissed, too, lightly Vittoria’s little gloved hand, who shot him a beseeching glance secretly, and left.
“My daughter,” said the Duchess coldly, playing with her gold watch-chain, “I wanted to speak to you about something alone, so I sent Marco away.”
Without replying Vittoria Fiore kept her eyes fixed on the majestic lady, waiting for her words, not without secret emotion.
“I am very pleased that you have married my nephew, Marco Fiore. Even when your engagement was announced three or four years ago I approved, because I had heard much good of you and your virtues. The Fiore are certainly a greater house than your own, and your dowry hasn’t been so much; but that doesn’t matter. In marrying you Marco has turned his back on a past of folly, and has begun a new life.”
A profound expression of suffering was depicted on the bride’s face, but she kept silent.
“By the way, don’t delude yourself: you haven’t caused this miracle,” continued the imperious lady icily, “he was bound to have enough of the other. You will know later on how men tire of their most impassioned loves. Maria—er—Guasco—I think I am right—was a most beautiful and fascinating woman, and Marco raved about her. He is cured now.”
And her inquisitorial eyes, which had read into a thousand faces and a thousand souls and hearts, read on Vittoria’s face the deep, tormenting and incurable doubt. The old lady raised her eyebrows slightly, on discovering this hidden and torturing truth, and shook her head.
“You don’t believe in this recovery? You are torturing yourself with the fear of the past, my daughter? Your first matrimonial joys have been poisoned by it?”
Seeing that she was understood even to the innermost recess of her soul, Vittoria relaxed her face, and closed her eyes, as if about to faint.