“Could none have foretold me that you must come some day?”
“Hush!” I implored her. “What are you saying?”
But though I begged her to be silent, my soul was avid for more such words from her—from her, the most perfect and beautiful of women.
“Why should I not?” said she. “Is truth ever to be stifled? Ever?”
I was mad, I know—quite mad. Her words had made me so. And when, to ask me that insistent question, she brought her face still nearer, I flung down the reins of my unreason and let it ride amain upon its desperate, reckless course. In short, I too leaned forward, I leaned forward, and I kissed her full upon those scarlet, parted lips.
I kissed her, and fell back with a cry that was of anguish almost—so poignantly had the sweet, fierce pain of that kiss run through my every fibre. And as I cried out, so too did she, stepping back, her hands suddenly to her face. But the next moment she was peering up at the windows of the house—those inscrutable eyes that looked upon our deed; that looked and of which it was impossible to discern how much they might have seen.
“If he should have seen us!” was her cry; and it moved me unpleasantly that such should have been the first thought my kiss inspired in her. “If he should have seen us! Gesu! I have enough to bear already!”
“I care not,” said I. “Let him see. I am not Messer Gambara. No man shall put an insult upon you on my account, and live.”
I was become the very ranting, roaring, fire-breathing type of lover who will slaughter a whole world to do pleasure to his mistress or to spare her pain—I—I—I, Agostino d'Anguissola—who was to be ordained next month and walk in the ways of St. Augustine!
Laugh as you read—for very pity, laugh!