“This year I ought to stay some days longer.”
As usual, on words which he feared would displease her Marco placed a courteous hesitation. He was never precise. He sought always to render the conversation more vague with a sweet smile.
Maria did not fall into the deception, and replied clearly--
“But three weeks are not the same as two, Marco.”
“They are not the same, it is true. I will try to shorten them.”
“My mother requires assistance this year; my brother Giulio is unable to give her any. I don’t like to say it, but my mother is getting older. The business of the house is heavy: there are so many things to regulate and decide. In fact, I neglect my mother a little.”
“Stop three weeks then,” she said, lowering her eyelids to hide the flash of her proud eyes.
“And you? What will you do in September in Rome alone?”
“I shall do what I can,” she said, throwing her head back among the cushions.
There was so much lack of comfort in those two words, so much empty sorrow; in fact, a pity so sterile, that she broke in--
“Don’t pity me, Marco; I don’t like you to pity me.”
“Does everything offend you, then, Maria?” he exclaimed, surprised.
“Pity above everything offends me--every one’s pity; but your pity offers me an atrocious offence.”
“Will nothing ever conquer this fatal pride of yours?”
“Nothing, no one. No one except myself, and not even I myself.”
“It is true; but very seldom have human eyes seen my tears,” she said conclusively.
He felt that evening, as on so many others, that never more would they find, if not the flame of passion, even the penetrating sweetness of loving companionship. The beautiful and beloved woman was near him. They were together, alone and free, alone and masters of every movement of the mind and action of the body; but some mysterious obstacle had been interposed between them, whence all beauty, love, liberty and consent were in vain.
Maria had before her the man she loved, with all his attractive appearance, with all the charms of youth and health, with all his seductiveness of mind, and this man was there in the name of an invincible transport, and ought to be and could be hers in every hour of her life. Yet nothing came of it, just as if a wanton, and deliberately wanton, hand were destroying this flower and fruit of love.