“There is nothing to be afraid of, CornÉlie,” he said, convincingly. “That man has no power over you if you refuse, if you refuse with a firm will. I do not see what he could do. You are quite free, absolutely released from him. That you ran away so precipitately was certainly not wise: it will look to him like a flight. Why did you not tell him calmly that he can’t claim any rights in you? Why did you not say that you loved me? If need were, you could have said that we were engaged. How can you have been so weak and so terrified? It’s not like you! But, now that you are here, all is well. We are together now. Shall we go back to Rome to-morrow or shall we remain here a little first? I have always longed to show you Florence. Look, there, in front of us, is the Arno; there is the Ponto Vecchio; there is the Uffizi. You’ve been here before, but you didn’t know Italy then. You’ll enjoy it more now. Oh, it is so lovely here! Let us stay a week or two first. I have a little money; you need have no fear. And life is cheaper here than in Rome. Living in this room, we shall spend hardly anything. I have light enough through this window to sketch by, now and again. Or else I go and work in the San Marco or in San Lorenzo or up on San Miniato. It is delightfully quiet in the cloisters. There are a few excursionists at times; but I don’t mind that. And you can go with me, with a book, a book about Florence; I’ll tell you what to read. You must learn to know Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, but, above all, Donatello. We shall see him in the Bargello. And Lippo Memmi’s Annunciation, the golden Annunciation! You shall see how like our angel is to it, our beautiful angel of happiness, the one you gave me! It is so rich here; we shall not feel that we are poor. We need so little. Or have you been spoilt by your luxury at Nice? But I know you so well: you will forget that at once; and we shall win through together. And presently we shall go back to Rome. But this time ... married, my darling, and you belonging to me entirely, legally. It must be so now; you must not refuse me again. We’ll go to the consul to-morrow and ask what papers we want from Holland and what will be the quickest way of getting married. And meanwhile you must look upon yourself as my wife. Until now we have been very, very happy ... but you were not my wife. Once you feel yourself to be my wife—even though we wait another fortnight for those papers to sign—you will feel safe and peaceful. There is nobody and nothing that has any power over you. You’re not well, if you really think there is. And then I’ll bet you, when we are married, my mother will make it up with us. Everything will come right, my darling, my angel.... But you must not refuse: we must get married with all possible speed.”

She was sitting beside him on a sofa and staring out of doors, where, in the square frame of the tall window, the slender campanile rose like a marble lily between the dome-crowned harmonies of the Cathedral and the Battisterio, while on one side the Palazzio Vecchio lay, a massive, battlemented fortress, amid the welter of the streets and roofs, and lifted its tower, suddenly expanding into the machicolated summit, with Fiesole and the hills shimmering behind it in the purple of the evening. The noble city of eternal grace gleamed a golden bronze in the last reflection of the setting sun.

“We must get married at once?” she repeated, with a doubting interrogation.

“Yes, as soon as ever we can, darling.”

“But Duco, dearest Duco, it’s less possible now than ever. Don’t you see that it can’t be done? It’s impossible, impossible. It might have been possible before, some months ago, a year ago ... perhaps, perhaps not even then. Perhaps it was never possible. It is so difficult to say. But now it can’t be done, really not....”

“Don’t you love me well enough?”

“How can you ask me such a question? How can you ask me, darling? But it’s not that. It is ... it is ... it can’t be, because I am not free.”

“Not free?”

“I am not free. I may feel free later ... or perhaps not, perhaps never.... My dearest Duco, it is impossible. I wrote to you, you know: that first meeting at the ball; it was so strange; I felt that ...”

“That what?”

She took his hand and stroked it; her eyes were vague, her words were vague:

“You see ... he has been my husband.”

“But you’re divorced from him: not merely separated, but divorced!”

“Yes, I’m divorced; but it’s not that.”

“What then, dearest?”

She shook her head and hid her face against him:

“I can’t tell you, Duco.”

“Why not?”

“I’m ashamed.”

“Tell me; do you still love him?”

“No, it’s not love. I love you.”

“But what then, my darling? Why are you ashamed?”

She began to cry on his shoulder:

“I feel....”

“What?”

“That I am not free, although ... although I am divorced. I feel ... that I am his wife all the same.”

She whispered the words almost inaudibly.

“But then you do love him and more than you love me.”

“No, no, I swear I don’t!”

“But, darling, you’re not talking sense!”

“Yes, indeed I am.”

“No, you’re not. It’s impossible!”

“It isn’t. It’s quite possible. And he told me so ... and I felt it....”

“But the fellow’s hypnotizing you!”

“No, it’s not hypnotism. It’s not a delusion: it’s a reality, deep, deep down within myself. Look here, you know me: you know how I feel. I love you and you only. That alone is love. I have never loved any one else. I am not a woman who is susceptible to.... I’m not hysterical. But with him ... No other man, no man whom I have ever met, rouses that feeling in me ... that feeling that I am not myself. That I belong to him, that I am his property, his chattel.”

She threw her arms about him, she hid herself like a child in his breast:

“It is so strange.... You know me, don’t you? I can be plucky and I am independent and I am never at a loss for an answer. But with him I am no longer sure of myself, I no longer have a life of my own. And I do what he tells me to.”

“But that is hypnotism: you can escape that, if you seriously wish to. I will help you.”

“It is not hypnotism. It is a truth, deep down inside me. It exists inside me. I know that it is so, that it has to be so.... Duco, it is impossible. I can’t become your wife. I mustn’t become your wife ... less now than ever. Perhaps....”

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps I always felt like that, without knowing it, that it must not be. Both for you and for me ... and for him too.... Perhaps that was what I felt, without knowing it, when I talked as I used to, about my antipathy for marriage.”

“But that antipathy arose from your marriage ... with him!”

“Yes, that’s the strange part of it. I dislike him ... and yet....”

“Yet you’re in love with him!”

“Yet I belong to him.”

“And you tell me that you love me!”

She took his head in her two hands:

“Try to understand. It tires me so, trying to make you understand. I love you ... but I am his wife....”

“Are you forgetting what you were to me in Rome?...”

“I was everything to you: love, happiness, intense happiness.... There was the most intense harmony between us: I shall never forget it.... But I was not your wife.”

“Not my wife!”

“No, I was your mistress.... I was unfaithful to him.... Oh, don’t repulse me! Pity me, pity me!”

He had unconsciously made a gesture that frightened her.

“Let me stay like this, leaning against you. May I? I am so tired and I feel restful, leaning against you like this, my darling. My darling, my darling ... things will never be as they were. What are we to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said, in despair. “I want to marry you as soon as may be. You won’t consent.”

“I can’t. I mustn’t.”

“Then I don’t know what to do or say.”

“Don’t be angry. Don’t leave me. Help me, do, do! I love you, I love you, I love you!”

She drew him into her arms, in a close, sudden embrace, as though in perplexity and despair. He kissed her passionately in response.

“O God, tell me what to do!” she prayed, as she, lay hopelessly perplexed in his embrace.