She made a brief pause, raising her eyes toward him, in order to take in the effect of her words.

“You remember our luncheon in the restaurant of Vomero; you remember how I begged you to go away, leaving me to my fate.  I had a foreboding of the future.  I foresaw that it was going to be fatal for you.  How could I join a direct and frank life like yours to my existence as an adventuress, mixed up in so many unconfessable compromises?...  But I was in love with you.  I wished to save you by leaving you, and at the same time I was afraid of not seeing you again.  The night that you irritated me with the fury of your desires and I stupidly defended myself, as though it were an outrage, concentrating on your person the hatred which all men inspire in me,—­that night, alone in my bed, I wept.  I wept at the thought that I had lost you forever and at the same time I felt satisfied with myself because thus I was freeing you from my baleful influence....  Then von Kramer came.  We were in need of a boat and a man.  The doctor spoke, proud of her penetration which had made her suspect in you an available asset.  They gave me orders to go in search of you, to regain the mastery over your self-control.  My first impulse was to refuse, thinking of your future.  But the sacrifice was sweet; selfishness directs our actions ... and I sought you!  You know the rest.”

She became silent, remaining in a pensive attitude, as though relishing this period of her recollection, the most pleasing of her existence.

“Upon going over to the steamer for you,” she continued a few moments afterward, “I understood just what you represented in my life.  What need I had of you!...  The doctor was preoccupied with the Italian events.  I was only counting the days, finding that they were passing by with more slowness than the others.  One ... two ... three ...  ’My adored sailor, my amorous shark, is going to come....  He is going to come!’ And what came suddenly, while we were still believing it far away, was the blow of the war, rudely separating us.  The doctor was cursing the Italians, thinking of Germany; I was cursing them, thinking of you, finding myself obliged to follow my friend, preparing for flight in two hours, through fear of the mob....  My only satisfaction was in learning that we were coming to Spain.  The doctor was promising herself to do great things here....  I was thinking that in no place would it be easier for me to find you again.”

She had gained a little more bodily strength.  Her hands were touching Ferragut’s knees, longing to embrace them, yet not daring to do so, fearing that he might repel her and overcome that tragic inertia which permitted him to listen to her.

“When in Bilboa I learned of the torpedoing of the Californian and of the death of your son....  I shall not talk about that; I wept, I wept bitterly, hiding myself from the doctor.  From that time on I hated her.  She rejoiced in the event, passing indifferently over your name.  You no longer existed for her, because she was no longer able to make use of you....  I wept for you, for your son whom I did not know, and also for myself, remembering my blame in the matter.  Since that day I have been another woman....  Then we came to Barcelona and I have passed months and months awaiting this moment.”