“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.”
His brow grew dark. He stopped an instant, and then rapidly continued:
“At a later day I ascertained, ... I had reason to believe, ... beyond a
doubt, that the feeling she had succeeded in hiding from me existed
really, profoundly, ... and that she had suffered.... Ginevra! in the
intoxication of my new happiness I could not feel any regret, but I
acknowledge I had a moment of remorse. Yes; I never wished to hear her
name again, never to see her or hear anything that would recall her.... I
was almost irritated at Naples at finding her card among those left on
your arrival there.... I was angry with her, poor Faustina, when I should
have been grateful as well as you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was at Naples, which she happened to be passing through, that the news
of our marriage reached her. And when we arrived just after, she wished to
show, by leaving her card, that she should henceforth only consider
herself my friend and yours. But at that time I did not regard it in this
way, and I was unjust as well as ungrateful.”
“And now, Lorenzo?” I said with many commingled feelings I could not have
defined.
“Now, Ginevra, I think she was generous, and it would be well for you to
be so in your turn. She wishes to know you, and I come to ask you to
receive her to‐morrow.... You hesitate!... I do not suppose, however,”
said he a little loftily, as he frowned, “that you think me capable of
making such a proposition to my wife, if the Marquise de Villanera had not
a spotless reputation, and I were not certain that there is no reason why
you should not grant her the favor I beg.”
Lorenzo was perfectly sincere at the moment he uttered these words. But as
I write the account of that day by the light of events that followed, I do
not feel the same assurance I did at the time he was talking. All he then
affirmed was true; but he did not tell me everything. He did not, for
instance, explain how he happened to learn, at a time when he had better
have never known them, the sentiments that had hitherto been concealed
from him. Still less did he tell me the effect this revelation produced on
him. But with regard to this he doubtless did not deceive me any more than
he did himself. Meanwhile, it was not possible to give more heed to a
vague, inexplicable presentiment it would have been impossible to justify,
than to what he said. I therefore consented, without any further
hesitation, to the interview he proposed, and gave him my hand. He kissed
it and held it lightly in his; then gave me a new proof of his confidence
as well as unexpected satisfaction by the following words:
“This interview, Ginevra, will not commit you to any great extent at the
most, as, for many reasons it would be useless to give you, I wish, if not
too great a disappointment for you, to leave Paris—sooner than we
intended. We will go in a week.”
He saw the ray of joy that flashed from my eyes, and looked at me with an
air of surprise. I was afraid of compromising poor Lando by betraying my
knowledge of the danger that rendered this departure so opportune. I was
also afraid he would regard it as a new proof of the jealous distrust he
had just allayed, and hastened to speak of Livia’s letter and my desire to
return to Naples, where I had just learned I should find my sister. He
accepted this explanation, and the day full of so many different causes of
excitement ended more tranquilly than I had anticipated two hours before.
It was difficult, however, when I once more found myself alone, to collect
my troubled thoughts. A confused crowd of new impressions had replaced
those of the morning. The projects inspired by the lofty eloquence of
Gilbert de Kergy all at once seemed chimerical. My hopes had fled beyond
recall. And yet I could not account for my apprehension. Anxiety, a vague
anxiety, persistently prevailed over everything. I only succeeded in
regaining my calmness at last by two considerations: we were to leave
Paris, and it was Lorenzo himself who proposed our departure.