Was
he in love with this woman? Did he, in his heart, love her--in his
heart, as he was there in the solitude of his own room, at liberty
and at leisure to examine his heart upon the subject. A heavy frown
settled on the Marchese Lamberto's brow, and an unpleasant change
came over his face, as he proceeded with the task of asking his
heart this question. There rose up feelings and promptings within
him, which almost drove him to the fierce assertion to himself that
he hated this woman, who was thus occupying his thoughts against his
will.
What had become of all that warm chivalry of feeling that had urged
him, with all perfect earnestness of sincerity, to declare that no
breath of calumny or insult should come near her, beneath the aegis
that he could and would throw over her? Where was it gone? All clean
gone. He knew, with tolerable accuracy, the story of the former life
of this woman. They were facts which he knew,--certainly knew. But
they had all vanished from his mind,--had been as though they were
not,--while he had sat there by her sofa, looking at her and
listening to her,--had all vanished, even as the ardent chivalry,
which had then been caused by some sorcery to spring up in his mind,
had vanished now.
It was passing strange.
That he was very sorely tempted--as he had never before in his life
been, tempted--to make love to this actress,--as it is called,--to
make love to her after the fashion, not so much of those poetical
descriptions which have been referred to, as after the fashion of
those prosaic settings-forth of the passion, which were familiar
enough to his ears, was clearly recognizable by him.
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