“I am sorry—­” began Nina, feebly.

I hastened to her side.

“Pray do not speak of it!” I urged, forcing something like a lover’s ardor into my voice.  “I regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune to have hands like those of your late husband!  I assure you I am quite miserable about it.  Can you forgive me?”

She was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she had behaved somewhat foolishly.  She smiled a weak pale smile; but she looked very scared, worn and ill.  She rose from her chair slowly and languidly.

“I think I will go to my room,” she said, not regarding Mere Marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering coldly on her still breast.

“Good-bye, Cesare!  Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from Avellino.”

I took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently with my lips.  She turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous idea seemed to enter her mind.  She looked at Madame la Vicaire and then came back to me.

“Addio, amor mio!” she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately.

Then she glanced maliciously at the nun, who had lowered her eyes till they appeared fast shut, and breaking into a low peal of indolently amused laughter, waved her hand to me, and left the room.

I was somewhat confused.  The suddenness and warmth of her caress had been, I knew, a mere monkeyish trick, designed to vex the religious scruples of Mere Marguerite.  I knew not what to say to the stately woman who remained confronting me with downcast eyes and lips that moved dumbly as though in prayer.  As the door closed after my wife’s retreating figure, the nun looked up; there was a slight flush on her pallid cheeks, and to my astonishment, tears glittered on her dark lashes.

“Madame,” I began, earnestly, “I assure you—­”

“Say nothing, signor,” she interrupted me with a slight deprecatory gesture; “it is quite unnecessary.  To mock a religieuse is a common amusement with young girls and women of the world.  I am accustomed to it, though I feel its cruelty more than I ought to do.  Ladies like the Countess Romani think that we—­we, the sepulchers of womanhood—­sepulchers that we have emptied and cleansed to the best of our ability, so that they may more fittingly hold the body of the crucified Christ; these grandes dames, I say, fancy that we are ignorant of all they know—­that we cannot understand love, tenderness or passion.  They never reflect—­how should they?—­that we also have had our histories—­histories, perhaps, that would make angels weep for pity!  I, even I—­” and she struck her breast fiercely, then suddenly recollecting herself, she continued coldly:  “The rule of our convent, signer, permits no visitor to remain longer than one hour—­that hour has expired.  I will summon a sister to show you the way out.”