“I have thought of it,” I answered gloomily, “but the thought has brought me no hope. Ramiro is not to be trusted. He might tell you that he sets me free, but he dare not do so; he fears that I may have knowledge of his dealings with Vitelli, and assuredly he would break faith with us. Again the coming of the Duke might be delayed. Alas!” I ended in despair, “there is nothing to be done but to let things run their course.”
There was even more in my mind than I expressed. My mistrust of Ramiro went further than I had explained, and concerning Madonna more closely than it did me.
“Nay, Lazzaro mine,” she still protested, “I will attempt it. It is, at least, well worth the risk.
“You forget,” said I, “that even when Cesare comes we cannot say how he will bear himself towards you. You were to have been betrothed to his cousin, Ignacio. It is a matter upon which he may insist.”
She looked at me for a moment with anguish in her eyes that turned my misery into torture.
“Lazzaro,” she moaned, “was ever woman so beset! I think that Heaven must have laid some curse upon me.”
Her face was close to mine. I stooped forward and kissed her on her brow.
“May God have you in His keeping, Madonna mia,” I murmured. “The sun is gone.”
“Lazzaro!” It was the cry of a breaking heart. Her arms went round my neck, and in a passion of grief her kisses burned on my lips.
Then the door of the anteroom opened—and I thanked God for the mercy of that interruption. I whispered a word to her, and in obedience she sprang back, and sank limp and broken on the chair once again.