That poor Violante! Of
course he knew that there could be no love between her and his
nephew. Ludovico had promised that that marriage should be made. Ay,
marry the uncle, to be the nephew's mistress with all convenience!
Such things had often been; there was nothing new in the
arrangement--nothing original in the idea--why, the very stage was
full of such examples: he to be the old duped husband of the farce;
he saw it all.
And as these thoughts also suggested themselves to his mind, his
heart seemed as though it were clutched by a hand of ice, while his
brow throbbed and his head burned with the pulsing blood.
He threw himself on to his chair again, and tore his hair with rage
and anguish; and all those vivid and palpitating love-representations
which passion had but now painted on the retina of his eye, were
reproduced by jealousy with the difference that Ludovico instead of
himself was the actor in them.
It was maddening; his brain seemed to reel; a cold sweat broke out
all over him. The fear dashed across his mind that he should really
lose his reason.
Was there, he thought to himself, as the terror of this made him
shudder--was there that night in all Ravenna so miserable a being as
himself? And that miserable man, cowering there in the restlessness
of his agony, was the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare; he whose
whole life had been one placid scene of happiness, prosperity, and
content.
Pages:
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317