“Ah! you were right. I was in great trouble, and you alone understood. You are noble, signor, noble; but you are cold. We women of the South, we are so different. When we love, we love with all the heart. We do not conceal it; we do not deny it. Know, then, signor, from the moment you came so bravely to my aid like some hero of romance I loved you, loved you with a passion that makes me forget all else. And you, you do not care. It is nothing to you. Oh, unhappy me! Tell me, signor, do you not think you can love me?”
I shrank back to the furthest limit of the bed-post. Again I thought: “Surely the girl is mad, perhaps dangerous as well. I’ve heard that these Neapolitan girls all carry daggers. I hope this young lady doesn’t follow the fashion. I think I’d better humour her.”
Aloud I said: “I don’t know. This is so sudden I haven’t had time to analyse my feelings yet. Perhaps I do. Give me to-night to think of it. Come to-morrow. But anyway, why should I let myself love you? I am a bird of passage. I have business. I must go away in a few days.”
“Where is the signor going?”
“To Paris,” I said cautiously.
Her strange eyes gleamed with tragic fire. “If you go to Paris without me,” she cried passionately, “I will follow you.”
“Well, well,” I said soothingly, “we’ll see. But now please leave me to think of all this. Don’t you see I’m agitated? You’ve taken me by surprise. Please give me till to-morrow.”
Her brows knit with jealous suspicion. I half thought she was going to reach for that dagger, but instead she rose abruptly.
“Oh, you are cold, you men of the North. I shall leave you at once.”
“Yes,” I answered eagerly; “go quickly, before any one finds you here.”