This time the thunderbolt had really fallen on my head! Many times had I
heard it rumbling afar off, and once I thought myself fatally injured; but
after a few stormy days, calmness was restored, the blue sky became
visible, and the sun once more diffused the light and warmth of renewed
confidence and happiness. The desire of being happy seconded my effort to
become so. And, as I have remarked, the liveliness, buoyancy, and love of
pleasure natural to the young, as well as the beauty of Naples and the
influence of its climate, all tended to surround me with an atmosphere at
once enervating and intoxicating. But now, in an instant, without any
warning, all my hopes were crushed, annihilated, for ever at an end!
“Should Lorenzo become treacherous, unfaithful, and untrue to his word,
could I continue to love him? What would become of me in such a case?”
Such were the questions I once asked myself, and they were the sincere cry
of my heart.
Now all this was realized. A person more treacherous, more deceitful, more
untrue than he it seemed impossible to find. Everything now became clear.
The words I heard, so plainly interpreted by the instinct they awakened
and that had already warned me so strangely, enabled me to comprehend
everything. Whether there was any good reason or not for his frequent
absence, it was evident he had always met her. It was therefore from these
interviews he had derived the cheerfulness and good‐humor that apparently
made him enjoy so much the comfort and splendor he afterwards came to
participate in with me. Once—who can tell for what reason?—he had delayed
going. It was then, probably, she came herself to meet him, not
foreseeing, or he either, it would be before my very eyes!...
Even at the present time it would perhaps agitate me and disturb the
tranquillity of my soul, should I dwell too long on the thoughts which
then overwhelmed me, and from which I derived the conviction that I no
longer loved Lorenzo. But I suffered from the deadly chill his treachery
had struck to my heart. I would rather have experienced the torment of
jealousy than the chill of indifference. To suffer from that would still
have been life. To suffer as I did was like being paralyzed, petrified,
dead.
Women more generous, more courageous, and more devoted than I, had, I was
aware, won back such inconstant hearts, and found happiness once more in
the sweetest of victories; but their example occurred to me without
producing any impression. I was not in a condition to be influenced by it.
My aimless life had resulted in the almost complete prostration of my
strength of volition. In this condition I could neither suffer with
courage, nor act with wisdom, nor resist temptation with any energy of
will....
O my God! it is with my face prostrate in the dust I desire to write the
pages that are to follow. It is not without hesitation I continue my
account. But the remembrance of thy mercy prevails over everything, and
effaces the very recollection of the faults and follies that serve to make
it manifest! Like our divine poet wandering in the mazes of that gloomy
forest which is the image of life, I, in my turn, attempt
“To discourse of what there good befell;
All else will I relate discovered there.”(82)
Mario, Stella, and Ottavia were the sole confidants of my secret, and they
kept it faithfully. Lorenzo had the less reason for suspecting I had been
to the ball when, returning home at six o’clock in the morning, he learned
I had had a violent attack of fever in the night, and was not able to
rise. There was no deception in this. It was not a mere pretext for
keeping my chamber, but the too natural consequence of the terrible
excitement of the night I had passed.
Lorenzo came several times to know how I was, and manifested more apparent
affection than usual; and yet once or twice, though perhaps my imagination
deceived me, I thought I saw something like embarrassment or uneasiness in
his face. I was, however, too ill all the morning to observe him closely
or make any reply to what he said.
Towards evening I felt better, and, though still weak, I got up. Lorenzo
came to see if anything serious was likely to result from my
indisposition, and, being reassured on this point, he went out as usual,
leaving me alone with Stella, who had spent part of the day at my bedside,
though I had not been able to talk with her any more than with him. Her
face was as grave that day as it was usually smiling. Stella’s
cheerfulness resulted from her complete lack of egotism. She regarded the
happiness of others as a treasure from which she took all she needed for
herself; and was happy, therefore, through sympathy. It was, so to speak,
a reflected happiness. Admirable disposition! Incapable of exacting
anything in view of her own lot, or of envying that of others, she was a
delightful friend in times of prosperity, and, at the same time, a devoted
adherent in misfortune, and the sweet, compassionate confidant of others’
sorrows. My disappearance the evening before, the condition in which she
found me in the morning, the incoherent words I uttered, prepared her for
something serious, and she knew beforehand I, of all people in the world,
would not hesitate to tell her the truth. In fact, as soon as we were left
alone in a small sitting‐room next my chamber, I gave her for the first
time a full account of all that had taken place at Paris, as well as the
night before. She listened without interrupting me, and, after I ended,
remained silent for some time.
“This is indeed a good lesson for me,” said she at length. “I am cured for
life, I hope, of a folly like that I committed last night.”
“What folly do you allude to?”
“Why, that of coming here and persuading you to go to a place where you
learned what you might for ever have remained ignorant of.”
“And continue to be taken in, deceived, and blinded, to live in an
atmosphere of deception, hypocrisy, and lies, to love what no longer
merits affection? No, Stella, no; do not regret that, thanks to you, it is
no longer the case. Were I to suffer even a thousand times more, were I to
die of anguish, as I thought I should on the spot when I saw that woman
pass by, I should be glad the veil had been torn from my eyes. I can no
longer be happy, it is true. My happiness is ruined beyond repair, but I
love truth better than happiness.”
“And do you think,” said Stella after a fresh pause, “that you can never
forgive Lorenzo?”
“He must, at least, desire it, as you will acknowledge, and this is
precisely what will never happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know Lorenzo. If I utter a reproach, it is he who thinks he has
something to forgive. He really obeys no law but the impulse that happens
to predominate. It is not in his nature, doubtless, to show me openly any
ill treatment, but he would break my heart without any scruple in order to
gratify his inclinations. I have no doubt he thinks he has acted with
great delicacy, because he has taken pains to conceal the base course he
has pursued; and when he finds out I have discovered it, it is he who will
think he has a right to be angry. That will be the result. What room is
there for forgiveness in such a tissue of falseness?”
“What can I say to you? It will be no consolation to hear there are many
women who have husbands like him. It is sad to feel there is nothing in
the world so rare as happiness. Nevertheless, it is true, and, for my
part, it has often consoled me for having had so little in my life. And
had I been happy in the beginning, who could tell what the future had in
reserve for me?”
“And you have never thought of marrying again? You can content yourself
with a life devoid of happiness, as well as of suffering?”
She smiled.
“My life is not so exempt from suffering as you may suppose. Neither is it
devoid of happiness while I have my Angiolina. As for marrying again, I
have never happened to meet a person who inspired me with the least desire
of that kind, and I imagine I never shall.”
“It is certain, however, if you wish to marry, you would only have the
trouble of choosing.”
“Perhaps among men not one of whom pleases me. Who knows how it would be
if I took it into my head to fancy some one? But let us leave my affairs
and return to you. Tell me, are you sure Lorenzo has not discovered you
were at the ball?”
“Yes, I am certain he has not. If he had any suspicion, he would not
conceal it from me. Besides, he found me too ill at his return to conceive
such an idea. And yet...”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, I noticed something that seemed to indicate he is not so sure as he
was yesterday of my utter ignorance of all he has thought proper to hide
from me.”
“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.”