“Mon ami,” she began, “I wish to speak to you very seriously.”
“Why so, anima mia?” (my soul)—taking her hand, and dropping on one knee, as he gallantly raised the jeweled fingers to his lips—“why should we be serious, when everything smiles on our projected union?”
“Hush, Balzano!” she replied, gently withdrawing her hand, and motioning him to a chair. “Listen to me for one moment. It is important to our happiness—indeed it is.”
Her solemn manner alarmed him; for the ready tear stood in his dark eyes, and he said sadly:
“I see it all—you do not love me!”
“Yes, dear friend—indeed—indeed I do. I think no one so good, so noble, so devoted as you.”
“Then what is it, cuore mio?” (my heart)—“speak.”
“I cannot!” said Evelyn, blushing, and not daring to look her lover in the face—for she knew that she was deceiving him—“the fact is, I cannot be a Catholic just yet; I should not like to confess.”
“If that is all, lady mine,” said Balzano, again smiling, “it can soon be arranged. Indeed, what sins shall you have to confess, unless, perhaps,” and he laughed—his old gay laugh—“you intend to like some one better than your husband?”
“Dear Balzano, forgive me, and let me have my own way this once—return to Naples, and let me go to Paris. I can profess Catholicism there; and besides, that is the only place where your bride could get the elegant toilette she will require to do you honor. Remember, Signor Duca, I shall be a Duchess.”