And the Marchese was, accordingly, a miserable
man.
A miserable man, and he could not help himself! Each time that he
quitted the siren, the chain that bound him was drawn more tightly
around him. At each visit he drank deep draughts of the philtre,
that was poisoning the fountains of his life. Again and again he had
made a violent struggle to throw off the enchantment and be free.
And again and again the effort had been too great for his strength,
and he had returned like the scorched moth, which comes back again
and again to the fatal brightness, till it perishes in it.
In his hours of solitary self-examination he loathed and mocked
himself to scorn! He, Lamberto di Castelmare, to risk and to feel
humiliation, and to suffer for the love of a woman, whose light
affections had been given to so many! He, who had been smiled on by
many a high-born beauty in vain! Love! did he love her? Again and
again he told himself that what he felt for her was far more akin to
hate. He marvelled; he could not comprehend himself! He was often
inclined to believe that the old tales of philtres and of witchery
were not all false, and that he was in truth bewitched; and he
struggled angrily against the spell, and at such times hated the
beauty that had tangled him in it!
And in all this time Bianca had not yet ventured to show clearly her
real game.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293