“Oh!” moaned the girl, and fixed on Don Ippolito a long look of wonder and reproach, which he met with eyes of silent anguish.
“It is terrible, madamigella,” he said, rising. “I know it. I would fain have lived single-heartedly, for I think I was made so; but now you see how black and deadly a lie my life is. It is worse than you could have imagined, is it not? It is worse than the life of the cruelest bigot, for he at least believes in himself.”
“Worse, far worse!”
“But at least, dear young lady,” he went on piteously, “believe me that I have the grace to abhor myself. It is not much, it is very, very little, but it is something. Do not wholly condemn me!”
“Condemn? Oh, I am sorry for you with my whole heart. Only, why must you tell me all this? No, no; you are not to blame. I made you speak; I made you put yourself to shame.”
“Not that, dearest madamigella. I would unsay nothing now, if I could, unless to take away the pain I have given you. It has been more a relief than a shame to have all this known to you; and even if you should despise me”—
“I don’t despise you; that isn’t for me; but oh, I wish that I could help you!”
Don Ippolito shook his head. “You cannot help me; but I thank you for your compassion; I shall never forget it.” He lingered irresolutely with his hat in his hand. “Shall we go on with the reading, madamigella?”
“No, we will not read any more to-day,” she answered.
“Then I relieve you of the disturbance, madamigella,” he said; and after a moment’s hesitation he bowed sadly and went.