“Yes,” I replied, “I forgive you; for you have been sincere, and that is
worth everything else. But, Monsieur de Kergy, I must be sincere likewise.
Let me therefore say to you, leave Naples. You ought to, and it is my
wish.”
He was greatly agitated, but did not utter a word. I continued with a
calmness that astonished me, though my heart beat with frightful rapidity:
“To‐morrow, I know, every one will depend on hearing you speak, and I
also. But do not remain in Naples beyond the following day, if you can
possibly help it. And after you are gone; I am sure you will be glad you
obeyed me.”
He made no reply.
“Who knows?” continued I gently. “The day will come, perhaps, when we can
meet again—when we can be truly friends without deceit, without falseness
in the real sense of the word. What is impossible now may not be always.”
While I was speaking he leaned against the wall with folded arms. He
listened at first with his head bent down; but he now suddenly raised it,
and I saw such a veil of sadness over his eyes and whole face that I had
to make a violent effort to maintain my self‐command.
At last he said:
“You are right. It was folly in me to come; it would be greater folly to
remain. I will obey you, madame. I cannot complain, and I respect you as
much as I....”
He stopped, for I made a deprecatory gesture. What I had to say was said,
and I felt our interview ought not to be prolonged. I was about to leave
the terrace when he detained me.
“A moment more, madame, I beg—only one, and the last; for who knows if you
will grant me another, even to bid you farewell?...”