That was past, of course, but the rest remained, and it was much to sacrifice for the sake of becoming a Contarini, and living on the Grand Canal with a man she should always despise.

It was clearly not the idea of marriage that surprised or repelled her, not even of a marriage with a man she did not know and had seen but once.  Girls were brought up to regard marriage as the greatest thing in life, as the natural goal to which all their girlhood should tend, and at the same time they were taught from childhood that it was all to be arranged for them, and that they would in due course grow fond of the man their parents chose for them.  Until Marietta had begun to love Zorzi, she had accepted all these things quite naturally, as a part of every woman’s life, and it would have seemed as absurd, and perhaps as impossible, to rebel against them as to repudiate the religion in which she had been born.  Such beliefs turn into prejudices, and assert themselves as soon as whatever momentarily retards them is removed.  By the time the gondola drew alongside of the steps of the Foscarini palace, Marietta was convinced that there was nothing for her but to submit to her fate.

“Then I am to be married in two months?” she said, in a tone of interrogation, and regardless of the servant.

Beroviero bent his head in answer and smiled kindly; for after all, he was grateful to her for accepting his decision so quietly.  But Marietta was very pale after she had spoken, for the audible words somehow made it all seem dreadfully real, and out of the shadows of the great entrance hall that opened upon the canal she could fancy Zorzi’s face looking at her sadly and reproachfully.  The bargain was made, and the woman he loved was sold for life.  For one moment, instinctive womanhood felt the accursed humiliation, and the flushing blood rose in the girl’s cool cheeks.

She would have blushed deeper had she guessed who had been witnesses of her first meeting with Contarini, and old Beroviero’s temper would have broken out furiously if he could have imagined that the Greek pirate who had somehow miraculously escaped the hangman in Naples had been contemplating with satisfaction the progress of the marriage negotiations, sure that he himself should before long be enjoying the better part of Marietta’s rich dowry.  If the old man could have had vision of Jacopo’s life, and could have suddenly known what the beautiful woman in black was to the patrician, Contarini’s chance of going home alive that day would have been small indeed, for Beroviero might have strangled him where he stood, and perhaps Aristarchi would have discreetly turned his back while he was doing it.  For a few minutes they had all been very near together, the deceivers and the deceived, and it was not likely that they should ever all be so near again.