"And penniless."
"True, Di Negra was a gambler, and very unlucky; no fault of mine. I could neither keep the cards from his hands, nor advise him how to play them."
"And my own portion? Oh, Giulio, I knew but at his death why you had condemned me to that renegade Genoese. He owed you money, and, against honor, and, I believe, against law, you had accepted my fortune in discharge of the debt."
"He had no other way to discharge it—a debt of honor must be paid—old stories these. What matters? Since then my purse has been open to you?"
"Yes, not as your sister, but your instrument—your spy! Yes, your purse has been open—with a niggard hand."
"Un peu de conscience, ma chère, you are so extravagant. But come, be plain. What would you?"
"I would be free from you."
"That is, you would form some second marriage with one of these rich island lords. Ma foi, I respect your ambition."
"It is not so high. I aim but to escape from slavery—to be placed beyond dishonorable temptation. I desire," cried Beatrice with increased emotion, "I desire to re-enter the life of woman."
"Eno'!" said the Count with a visible impatience, "is there any thing in the attainment of your object that should render you indifferent to mine? You desire to marry, if I comprehend you right. And to marry, as becomes you, you should bring to your husband not debts, but a dowry. Be it so. I will restore the portion that I saved from the spendthrift clutch of the Genoese—the moment that it is mine to bestow—the moment that I am husband to my kinsman's heiress. And now, Beatrice, you imply that my former notions revolted your conscience; my present plan should content it; for by this marriage shall our kinsman regain his country, and repossess, at least, half his lands. And if I am not an excellent husband to the demoiselle, it will be her own fault. I have sown my wild oats. Je suis bon prince, when I have things a little my own way. It is my hope and my intention, and certainly it will be my interest, to become digne époux et irréproachable père de famille. I speak lightly—'tis my way. I mean seriously. The little girl will be very happy with me, and I shall succeed in soothing all resentment her father may retain. Will you aid me then—yes or no? Aid me, and you shall indeed be free. The magician will release the fair spirit he has bound to his will. Aid me not, ma chère, and mark, I do not threaten—I do but warn—aid me not; grant that I become a beggar, and ask yourself what is to become of you—still young, still beautiful, and still penniless? Nay, worse than penniless; you have done me the honor" (and here the Count, looking on the table, drew a letter from a portfolio, emblazoned with his arms and coronet), "you have done me the honor to consult me as to your debts."