“I agree with you, Ginevra. And shall I tell you what I think?”
“Tell me.”
“That he supposes me to be the mask he addressed by mistake, and does me the honor of supposing I have denounced him.”
“What an idea!... Why should he suppose it was you?”
“Oh! by that aberration of mind common to gentlemen who frequent masked balls and persist in thinking they are right every time they are mistaken.”
“But once more: Why should he suppose you were at the ball? Your secret has been as well kept as mine, I imagine.”
“Not quite. In the first place, I spoke to several persons. And when Mario came to deliver your message, I could not repress an exclamation of surprise, which betrayed me, not only to your brother, but to Lando, on whose arm I was then leaning. I do not know whether it was he or not who spread the report, but it has certainly been whispered around that I attended the Festino. Lorenzo has taken the idea I have mentioned into his head, and of course supposes what I know has been communicated to you, or will be. This is what I have been wishing to say to you.”
My faithful Ottavia now made her appearance to warn me it was time to retire. Stella left me, and, after her departure, I began to reflect on her conjecture and consider what reply I should make, should Lorenzo question me on the subject. I was far from suspecting the means he would adopt to anticipate the scene he foresaw.
I was alone the following morning when I saw him enter, calm, smiling, and self-possessed, as if there was no actual or possible cloud between us. He spoke of my health, and, satisfied that I was really better, proceeded to more indifferent subjects, and then suddenly, with an assurance the recollection of which still astonishes me, he said:
“Apropos, Ginevra, the Marchesa di Villanera has been in Naples several days.”