"
She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she ceased speaking, and
appeared to be entirely overcome by her emotion.
The Marchese rose from his chair in a state of hardly less
agitation. He walked across the room;--returned to the sofa, and
seemed for a moment as if he were going to take her hand; then
turned away, and stood on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire.
He was much moved, puzzled, pained, disappointed,--goaded and lashed
more violently than ever by the furies of passion; more than ever
wishing that he had never seen the beautiful creature lying there
before him, and more than ever writhing in mind under the
consciousness that to give her up was beyond his power.
At length he again stepped up to the side of the sofa and took her
hand.
She started; and plucked it from him.
"Go, Signor Marchese--go, and leave me. It would perhaps be better
so for both of us. I am not used to show to anybody the very inmost
secrets of my heart, as I have been doing to you,--I know not why.
Forget what I have said. Go, and forget me;--forget the poor
comedian to whom your goodness, your nobleness, and--your love--
seemed for a passing minute to open a blessed glimpse of a heaven
upon earth; but never--never again propose to me to associate the
name of Lamberto di Castelmare with names that I would--oh, so fain-
-forget!"
Still the Marchese had not realized the nature of the position or
seen the only outlet from the cul-de-sac into which he had been
driven.
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