She did not answer.
Caracciolo went off, slowly, slowly; stopping now and then to look back.
She turned her eyes again upon the windows of the club, but they were quite dark; the lights had been extinguished.
So Caracciolo had been the last to leave; and Cesare was not there!
She felt terribly cold, all at once. Her teeth chattered. She went back into the room, shivering, and had scarcely strength enough to shut the window. She fell upon a chair, exhausted. The clock struck. It was half-past three.
And now a hideous suspicion began to torture her. There were no balls to-night, no receptions, no functions. The club was shut up. The cafés were shut up. All talking, eating, drinking, gambling, were over for the night. The life of the night was spent. Everybody had gone home to bed. Then where was Cesare? Cesare, her husband, was with a woman! And jealousy began to gnaw her heart. With a woman; that was certain. The truth burned her soul. He could be nowhere else than with a woman. The truth rang in her heart like a trumpet-blast. Mechanically she put her fingers to her ears to shut out the words—with a woman, with a woman.
But what woman?
She knew nothing of her husband's secrets, nothing of his past or present loves.
She was a mere stranger whom he tolerated, not a friend, not a confidant. She was a troublesome bond upon him, an obstacle to his pleasures, an interference with his habits. No doubt there were older bonds, stronger ties, that kept him from her; or it might be the mere force of a passing fancy. But for what woman, for what woman? In vain she tried to give the woman a name, a living form.
Oh, certainly not a lady, not a woman of honourable rank and reputation; not the Contessa d'Alemagna.