"Oh, of course," interrupted Leonora, "if you have made up your mind I must submit. If you think you can make me more miserable anywhere else than you can here, I must let you try. I hardly think you can. You might be satisfied. Nevertheless, let us go."
"I do not wish to make you miserable, you know perfectly. I wish to make you happy and free."
"Free?" repeated Leonora. "Indeed, you have a singular fashion of making me free, to watch me day and night, as though I intended to run away with your silver. Free, indeed! Free from what?"
She laughed, scornfully enough, in his face. It was the first time they had approached any subject of this kind since the memorable night after Marcantonio's discovery. But since he had made up his mind to take her away he was willing to undergo another scene if it were absolutely necessary.
"To make you free from the society of Monsieur Batiscombe," answered Marcantonio boldly. "You can never be well until you are absolutely out of his reach, and if I must go to the end of the world I will accomplish that."
"You need not insult me in words," said Leonora, disdainfully. "You have done it quite enough already by your deeds."
Marcantonio was silent for a moment. The speech hurt him, for he knew how he believed in her innocence, and how it was his jealousy that now prompted most of his actions. His voice changed a little as he answered, and he was more like his old self than he had been for days.
"Leonora," he said, "I would not insult you for anything. But, would you rather I were not a little jealous, since I really love you?"
Perhaps he spoke foolishly--perhaps he hoped to soften her heart: at all events he spoke seriously enough, and laid his hand on hers. But she did not like his touch and drew her fingers away.
"A little jealous!" she cried. "So little that I am kept like a prisoner and watched like a political suspect! Be jealous--yes--since you say you love me; but behave like a sensible creature. Moreover, you might make sure that you had some cause for jealousy before coupling the name of the first man you chance to dislike with mine. Is not that an insult?"
"Certainly it is--and if I did that you would be quite right," said he; "but things are a little different. You do not understand Batiscombe--I do. You have taken a fancy for him--so did I. But you push your fancy too far. I now understand him, and I do not think him a proper friend for you. You make difficulties, you insist upon seeing him. I forbid you, and prevent you. You turn pale and ill, and I am angry that you should be so foolish. Mon Dieu! I am angry--voilà."