All that he said was reflected sadly in its truth and irreparableness.
“Then,” she interrupted, “then whoever has sinned, in punishment for his sin must continue to sin.”
“Yes, Maria; sin, but without fascination. Sin is a punishment in itself. I believe, I am sure, that this is punishment.”
A heavy silence fell upon them. The woman’s head was bowed, and she had crossed her hands over her knees. There was not a breath of air in that atmosphere of a cemetery.
“At home they will say: ‘_She always loved him, and always lied in denying that she loved him_.’”
“They will say that,” admitted Marco sadly.
“Your wife will say so, Marco,” Maria continued monotonously, “‘_Marco never forgot her, and always lied_.’”
“And it will all be false, Marco, because we shall be again without passion, without love, without rapture.”
“Shall we rehearse our comedy together, Marco,” she asked mournfully--“the comedy of love? Couldn’t we live like two companions, like two friends? Say, couldn’t we live so, at least without lying?”
“No, dear, no,” he resumed, with a weak, sorrowful smile, “it isn’t possible. You are a woman; I am a man. We are still young. What you say is impossible.”
“O Marco, without love?” she murmured, turning her head aside in shame.
He was silent, feeling that she was right. But he could not deceive her.
“Even this, dear lady mine, is a punishment.”
“O Marco, Marco!” she cried, leaning her head on his shoulder, and hiding her face in his breast.
He pressed her to himself sweetly, and kissed her on the eyes, which were red without weeping, and upon her pale face and lips.
“At last,” he said, “we shall find some sweetness in this expiation. My arms know you, Maria, and my breast is a haven for you. I know your arms, and I know I can sleep peacefully, if not ecstatically, on your heart.”
“The days will be long and silent,” she murmured, rising, passing her arm under Marco’s, as they went down the straight path together.
“Our souls will do nothing but secretly regret that which is no more.”
“And so we shall go on till death, Marco,” she concluded, with an accent of infinite melancholy.
They were in the deepest part of the gloomy wood, like an immense tomb, amidst the thousand bronze candelabra, which seemed to have been lit for something great that was dead.