[CHAPTER XXIX.]
"Married!" said St. Leon to himself, with a start, and a quick glance at Beatrix. He bowed to her gracefully, then hurried to his wife's side.
"You are better, Beatrix?" he said, anxiously, and they all saw his passionate heart looking out of the beautiful eyes he bent on her pale and tear-stained face.
She clung to him in a sort of nervous terror and fear.
"Yes, I am better, thanks to the goodness of Clarice and her mistress," she faltered. "You must thank them for their kindness to me, St. Leon, and take me away."
He obeyed her request in a few courteous words, bowed to the party, and led his wife away, outwardly cool and collected, but on fire with jealous pain.
"She loves him still! She fainted at the bare sight of him!" he muttered to himself.
"My God! why did she marry me, then? Was it for wealth and position?"
The bitter doubt tore his heart like a knife. An unconscious coldness grew up in his heart toward her.
He placed her silently in the carriage, and, springing in beside her, gave himself up to bitter reflections.