Faustina Reali!... That was the never‐to‐be‐forgotten name I had read on
the card Lorenzo snatched so violently from my hands at Naples! I had
never seen it again, never heard it pronounced, but I remembered only too
well the expression of my husband’s face when he saw it, and the way in
which he tore up the card on which it was written!...
I endeavored to lead the conversation at another time back to this
circumstance, but at once desisted, frightened at the manner in which he
imposed silence on me, and a certain impression of both mystery and danger
remained associated with the name.
As soon as I became calmer, however, I acknowledged that I really knew
nothing, absolutely nothing, to cause the violent emotion I had just
experienced. It had an imaginary cause, then, and might simply be owing to
my mind, so recently lost in vague dreams, and perhaps a little too high‐
flown, being suddenly recalled to a painful and unpleasant, as well as
very commonplace reality. I had imagined I was going to transform, as by
the stroke of a wand, my husband’s habits, tastes, occupations—nay, his
entire life—but was brought to my senses by learning he had just lost an
enormous sum at the races, and his mind, for the moment, was absorbed in
the necessary complications for paying the debt. I had planned spending
several hours alone with him that evening, during which, away from the
bustle of the world, I would give him a minute account of my recent
impressions, and tell him of all the wishes, projects, and ardent desires
of which he was the object. I would rouse a nobler pride in his soul, and
appeal to a thousand sentiments that were dormant, but not extinct; and I
believe I expected to see them awakened at the mere sound of my voice!...
Instead of this, ... I was alone, and he was with another.... And what
other?... Who was this Faustina, whose name had so suddenly appeared in my
life, and who, at the very hour when I was aiming at so pure and elevated
an influence over him, came thus, like an evil genius, to thrust herself
between us?... I reminded myself in vain that Lorenzo had no idea of the
plans I had, unbeknown to him, formed for the evening, but supposed me at
this very moment to be with my friends, where he had promised to join me;
but nothing could calm the sudden agitation of my heart, nothing could
check the flood of thoughts that sprang from my anxiety, jealousy, and
misconceptions, and my excitement became more intense in proportion to the
lateness of the hour. Would he never come?...
And what would he say when he should arrive?... I was sure he would try to
conceal his interview with Donna Faustina, and perhaps I ought to hide my
knowledge of that as well as everything else, and feign ignorance of all
that had occurred, in order not to betray Lando’s indiscretion.... But
what should I do when his eyes, so accustomed to interpret every
expression of my face, should be fastened on me? How could I practise any
dissimulation with him? It was not, indeed, my place to do anything of the
kind. I had no cause to blush or be intimidated. And should he discover,
after all, that I was not deceived, so much the better; and should he be
displeased, so much the worse for Lando.
I had arrived at this point in my reflections when I heard the bell
ringing loudly in the next room. Then there was a quick step, which this
time was really his, and Lorenzo entered the room. He was pale and
appeared excited, but said in a sufficiently calm tone:
“I have just come from M——’s, where I supposed I should find you; but I
learned that, in sending my apology, you also excused yourself, and I did
not remain an instant. What is the matter, Ginevra?... Are you ill?... Why
did you not go? Why did you remain at home alone in this way?”
His expression was singular. It was at once affectionate and troubled. He
looked earnestly at me, as he gave me his hand, and put back my hair in
order to see my face more distinctly.
My cheeks were burning. The traces of the tears I had shed were visible,
and, with his scrutinizing eyes upon me, I felt it hardly possible to
restrain those that still filled my own.... He took my head between his
two hands, and held it a moment against his breast in silence. The
throbbing of his heart perhaps equalled that of mine. I was touched,
speechless and disarmed, and less than ever in a condition to dissimulate
anything, when he suddenly said:
“Why have you been crying, Ginevra? I must know.”
Raising my still tearful eyes towards him, and looking confidingly in his
face, I replied: “I have been crying, Lorenzo, because I heard Donna
Faustina is here, and that you had gone to see her.”
He started, and, though accustomed to the variations of his mobile face, I
was struck with the effect my words had produced. His face reddened, then
turned paler than before, and for some moments he was incapable of making
any reply, and even seemed to forget my proximity. He seated himself
beside the table, and remained silent. I looked at him with amazement and
anxiety. At length he said:
“Who has told you anything about Donna Faustina, and what do you know of
her?”
“No one has told me anything about her, and all I know of her you have
told me yourself by the very emotion you show at her name.”
He was again silent for a moment, and then resumed in his usual tone, as
if he had triumphed over all hesitation:
“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.”