"I am too much honored! And did you, conte, think for a moment that such an arrangement would meet with my approval?"
I was silent. My brain was confused--I found it difficult to meet with and confront such treachery as this. What! Had she no conscience? Were all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught? Were they all blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a sponge! Almost I pitied Guido! His fate, in her hands, was evidently to be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should I be surprised? why should I pity? Had I not calculated it all? and was it not part of my vengeance?
"Tell me!" pursued my wife's dulcet voice, breaking in upon my reflections, "did you really imagine Signer Ferrari's suit might meet with favor at my hands?"
I must speak--the comedy had to be played out. So I answered, bluntly: "Madam, I certainly did think so. It seemed a natural conclusion to draw from the course of events. He is young, undeniably handsome, and on his uncle's death will be fairly wealthy--what more could you desire? besides, he was your husband's friend--"
"And for that reason I would never marry him!" she interrupted me with a decided gesture. "Even if I liked him sufficiently, which I do not" (oh, miserable traitress), "I would not run the risk of what the world would say of such a marriage."
"How, madam? Pardon me if I fail to comprehend you."
"Do you not see, conte?" she went on in a coaxing voice, as of one that begged to be believed, "if I were to marry one that was known to have been my husband's most intimate friend, society is so wicked--people would be sure to say that there had been something between us before my husband's death--I KNOW they would, and I could not endure such slander!"
"Murder will out" they say! Here was guilt partially declaring itself. A perfectly innocent woman could not foresee so readily the condemnation of society. Not having the knowledge of evil she would be unable to calculate the consequences. The overprudish woman betrays herself; the fine lady who virtuously shudders at the sight of a nude statue or picture, announces at once to all whom it may concern that there is something far coarser in the suggestions of her own mind than the work of art she condemns. Absolute purity has no fear of social slander; it knows its own value, and that it must conquer in the end. My wife--alas! that I should call her so--was innately vicious and false; yet how particular she was in her efforts to secure the blind world's good opinion! Poor old world! how exquisitely it is fooled, and how good-naturedly it accepts its fooling! But I had to answer the fair liar, whose net of graceful deceptions was now spread to entrap me, therefore I said with an effort of courtesy: "No one would dare to slander you, contessa, in my presence." She bowed and smiled prettily. "But," I went on, "if it is true that you have no liking for Signer Ferrari--"