“Very common,” I answered, mechanically, still regarding the fair upturned face, the lustrous eyes, the rippling hair; “but they do not often end so fatally.  The result of this one compels me to leave Naples for some days.  I go to Avellino to-night.”

“To Avellino?” she exclaimed, with interest.  “Oh, I know it very well.  I went there once with Fabio when I was first married.”

“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly.

I remembered the time she spoke of—­a time of such unreasoning, foolish joy!

“Happy?  Oh, yes; everything was so new to me then.  It was delightful to be my own mistress, and I was so glad to be out of the convent.”

“I thought you liked the nuns?” I said.

“Some of them—­yes.  The reverend mother is a dear old thing.  But Mere Marguerite, the Vicaire as she is called—­the one that received you—­oh, I do detest her!”

“Indeed! and why?”

The red lips curled mutinously.

“Because she is so sly and silent.  Some of the children here adore her; but they must have something to love, you know,” and she laughed merrily.

“Must they?”

I asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying something.

“Of course they must,” she answered, gayly.  “You foolish Cesare!  The girls often play at being one another’s lovers, only they are careful not to let the nuns know their game.  It is very amusing.  Since I have been here they have what is called a ‘Craze’ for me.  They give me flowers, run after me in the garden, and sometimes kiss my dress, and call me by all manner of loving names.  I let them do it because it vexes Madame la Vicaire; but of course it is very foolish.”

I was silent.  I thought what a curse it was—­this necessity of loving.  Even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of children—­young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and guarded by the conscientious care of holy women.

“And the nuns?” I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud.  “How do they manage without love or romance?”

A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes.

“Do they always manage without love or romance?” she asked, half indolently.  “What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?”

Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held her firmly while I said, with some sternness: 

“And you—­is it possible that you have sympathy with, or find amusement in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable passion--tell me?”

She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely.

“Not I!” she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; “how can you think so?  There is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good ever comes of it.”

I loosened her from my embrace.

“You are right,” I said, calmly; “I am glad your instincts are so correct!  I have always hated lies.”