“Well, Ginevra, even if you had not known of her being in Paris, or had never heard of her name or existence, I had resolved to speak to you about her this very evening. Listen to me. It is not, after all, a long story.”
He had perfectly recovered his self-control, and yet he continued with some effort:
“It is not for you to be jealous of her, Ginevra. It is she who has reason to be jealous of you. She has done you no wrong; whereas, without suspecting it, you have done her a great and irreparable injury.”
I opened my eyes with surprise.
“It is not necessary to tell you when and where I met her for the first time, but perhaps it is right I should acknowledge that I was inspired with a passion for her such as a man willingly imagines he can never feel but once in his life.”
I could not repress a start.
“Wait, Ginevra; hear me to the end. She was married and virtuous. I left her, ... but I had just learned she was free, and was about to go to see her when I was called to Sicily by the lawsuit on which my property depends. You know the rest.... The sight of you effaced the impressions of the past. I was still free—free from any promise that bound me to her, though perhaps she was expecting me to return to Milan....”
“You forgot her, and offered me your hand?...” I exclaimed with mingled pity and almost reproach.
He replied with some emotion:
“Yes, Ginevra, and without any scruple; for after passing a month in your vicinity, I felt I loved her no longer, and at that time ... I did not know she loved me.”