My wife wore them always:  even on that night when I had seen her clasped in Guido’s arms, a red rose on her breast had been crushed in that embrace—­a rose whose withered leaves I still possess.  In the forest solitude where I now dwell there are no roses—­and I am glad!  The trees are too high, the tangle of bramble and coarse brushwood too dense—­nothing grows here but a few herbs and field flowers—­weeds unfit for wearing by fine ladies, yet to my taste infinitely sweeter than all the tenderly tinted cups of fragrance, whose colors and odors are spoiled to me forever.  I am unjust, say you? the roses are innocent of evil?  True enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and—­I strive always to forget!

I reached my hotel that evening to find that I was an hour late for dinner, an unusual circumstance, which had caused Vincenzo some disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face when I entered.  For some days the honest fellow had watched me with anxiety; my abstracted moods, the long solitary walks I was in the habit of taking, the evenings I passed in my room writing, with the doors locked—­all this behavior on my part exercised his patience, I have no doubt, to the utmost limit, and I could see he had much ado to observe his usual discretion and tact, and refrain from asking questions.  On this particular occasion I dined very hastily, for I had promised to join my wife and two of her lady friends at the theater that night.

When I arrived there, she was already seated in her box, looking radiantly beautiful.  She was attired in some soft, sheeny, clinging primrose stuff, and the brigand’s jewels I had given her through Guido’s hands, flashed brilliantly on her uncovered neck and arms.  She greeted me with her usual child-like enthusiasm as I entered, bearing the customary offering—­a costly bouquet, set in a holder of mother-of-pearl studded with turquois, for her acceptance.  I bowed to her lady friends, both of whom I knew, and then stood beside her watching the stage.  The comedietta played there was the airiest trifle—­it turned on the old worn-out story—­a young wife, an aged, doting husband, and a lover whose principles were, of course, of the “noblest” type.  The husband was fooled (naturally), and the chief amusement of the piece appeared to consist in his being shut out of his own house in dressing-gown and slippers during a pelting storm of rain, while his spouse (who was particularly specified as “pure”) enjoyed a luxurious supper with her highly moral and virtuous admirer.  My wife laughed delightedly at the poor jokes and the stale epigrams, and specially applauded the actress who successfully supported the chief role.  This actress, by the way, was a saucy, brazen-faced jade, who had a trick of flashing her black eyes, tossing her head, and heaving her ample bosom tumultuously whenever she hissed out the words Vecchiaccio maladetto [Footnote:  Accursed, villainous old monster.] at her discomfited husband, which had an immense effect on the audience—­an audience which entirely sympathized with her, though she was indubitably in the wrong.  I watched Nina in some derision as she nodded her fair head and beat time to the music with her painted fan.  I bent over her.