Hermione got up. The Marchesino followed her example. But he did not go. He stood still for a moment in silence. Then he lifted his head up with a jerk.
“Signora,” he said, in a hard, uneven voice that betrayed the intensity of his excitement, “I see how it is. I understand perfectly what is happening here. You think me bad. Well, I am like other men, and I am not ashamed of it—not a bit. I am natural. I live according to my nature, and I do not come from your north, but from Naples—from Naples.” He threw out his arm, pointing at a window that looked towards the city. “If it is bad to have the blood hot in one’s veins and the fire hot in one’s head and in one’s heart—very well! I am bad. And I do not care. I do not care a bit! But you think me a stupid boy. And I am not that. And I will show you.” He drew his fingers together, and bent towards her, slightly lowering his voice. “From the first, from the very first moment, I have seen, I have understood all that is happening here. From the first I have understood all that was against me—”
“Marchese—!”
“Signora, pardon me! You have spoken, the Signorina has spoken, and now it is for me to speak. It is my right. I come here with an honorable proposal, and therefore I say I have a right—”
He put his fingers inside his shirt collar and pulled it fiercely out from his throat.
“E il vecchio!” he exclaimed, with sudden passion. “E il maledetto vecchio!”
Hermione’s face changed. There had been in it a firm look, a calmness of strength. But now, at his last words, the strength seemed to shrink. It dwindled, it faded out of her, leaving her not collapsed, but cowering, like a woman who crouches down in a corner to avoid a blow.
“It is he! It is he! He will not allow it, and he is master here.”
“Marchese—”
“I say he is master—he is master—he has always been master here!”