We forgave each other before he died."

She listened attentively. A little color came back into her cheeks.

"In what way did he insult you?" she asked, in a low voice.

I told her all, briefly. She still looked anxious.

"Did he mention my name?" she said.

I glanced at her troubled features in profound contempt. She feared the dying man might have made some confession to me! I answered:

"No; not after our quarrel. But I hear he went to your house to kill you! Not finding you there, he only cursed you."

She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe now, she thought!

Her red lips widened into a cruel smile.

"What bad taste!" she said, coldly. "Why he should curse me I cannot imagine! I have always been kind to him--TOO kind."

Too kind indeed! kind enough to be glad when the object of all her kindness was dead! For she WAS glad! I could see that in the murderous glitter of her eyes.

"You are not sorry?" I inquired, with an air of pretended surprise.

"Sorry? Not at all! Why should I be? He was a very agreeable friend while my husband was alive to keep him in order, but after my poor Fabio's death, his treatment of me was quite unbearable."

Take care, beautiful hypocrite! take care! Take care lest your "poor Fabio's" fingers should suddenly nip your slim throat with a convulsive twitch that means death! Heaven only knows how I managed to keep my hands off her at that moment! Why, any groveling beast of the field had more feeling than this wretch whom I had made my wife! Even for Guido's sake--such are the strange inconsistencies of the human heart--I could have slain her then. But I restrained my fury; I steadied my voice and said calmly: "Then I was mistaken? I thought you would be deeply grieved, that my news would shock and annoy you greatly, hence my gravity and apparent coldness. But it seems I have done well?"

She sprung up from her chair like a pleased child and flung her arms round my neck.

"You are brave, you are brave!" she exclaimed, in a sort of exultation.

"You could not have done otherwise! He insulted you and you killed him.

That was right! I love you all the more for being such a man of honor!"

I looked down upon her in loathing and disgust. Honor! Its very name was libeled coming from HER lips. She did not notice the expression of my face--she was absorbed, excellent actress as she was, in the part she had chosen to play.

"And so you were dull and sad because you feared to grieve me! Poor Cesare!" she said, in child-like caressing accents, such as she could a.s.sume when she chose. "But now that you see I am not unhappy, you will be cheerful again? Yes? Think how much I love you, and how happy we will be! And see, you have given me such lovely jewels, so many of them too, that I scarcely dare offer you such a trifle as this; but as it really belonged to Fabio, and to Fabio's father, whom you knew, I think you ought to have it. Will you take it and wear it to please me?" and she slipped on my finger the diamond signet--my own ring!

I could have laughed aloud! but I bent my head gravely as I accepted it.

"Only as a proof of your affection, cara mia," I said, "though it has a terrible a.s.sociation for me. I took it from Ferrari's hand when--"

"Oh, yes, I know!" she interrupted me with a little shiver; "it must have been trying for you to have seen him dead. I think dead people look so horrid--the sight upsets the nerves! I remember when I was at school here, they WOULD take me to see a nun who died; it sickened me and made me ill for days. I can quite understand your feelings. But you must try and forget the matter. Duels are very common occurrences, after all!"

"Very common," I answered, mechanically, still regarding the fair upturned face, the l.u.s.trous eyes, the rippling hair; "but they do not often end so fatally. The result of this one compels me to leave Naples for some days. I go to Avellino to-night."

"To Avellino?" she exclaimed, with interest. "Oh, I know it very well.

I went there once with Fabio when I was first married."

"And were you happy there?" I inquired, coldly.

I remembered the time she spoke of--a time of such unreasoning, foolish joy!

"Happy? Oh, yes; everything was so new to me then. It was delightful to be my own mistress, and I was so glad to be out of the convent."

"I thought you liked the nuns?" I said.

"Some of them--yes. The reverend mother is a dear old thing. But Mere Marguerite, the Vicaire as she is called--the one that received you--oh, I do detest her!"

"Indeed! and why?"

The red lips curled mutinously.

"Because she is so sly and silent. Some of the children here adore her; but they MUST have something to love, you know," and she laughed merrily.

"Must they?"

I asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying something.

"Of course they must," she answered, gayly. "You foolish Cesare! The girls often play at being one another's lovers, only they are careful not to let the nuns know their game. It is very amusing. Since I have been here they have what is called a 'CRAZE' for me. They give me flowers, run after me in the garden, and sometimes kiss my dress, and call me by all manner of loving names. I let them do it because it vexes Madame la Vicaire; but of course it is very foolish."

I was silent. I thought what a curse it was--this necessity of loving.

Even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of children--young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and guarded by the conscientious care of holy women.

"And the nuns?" I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. "How do they manage without love or romance?"

A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes.

"DO they always manage without love or romance?" she asked, half indolently. "What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?"

Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held her firmly while I said, with some sternness:

"And you--is it possible that YOU have sympathy with, or find amus.e.m.e.nt in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable pa.s.sion--tell me?"

She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely.

"Not I!" she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; "how can you think so? There is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good ever comes of it."

I loosened her from my embrace.

"You are right," I said, calmly; "I am glad your instincts are so correct! I have always hated lies."

"So have I!" she declared, earnestly, with a frank and open look; "I have often wondered why people tell them. They are so sure to be found out!"

I bit my lips hard to shut in the burning accusations that my tongue longed to utter. Why should I d.a.m.n the actress or the play before the curtain was ready to fall on both? I changed the subject of converse.

"How long do you propose remaining here in retreat?" I asked. "There is nothing now to prevent your returning to Naples."

She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said: