Carlo had listened to Violetta, measuring the false and the true in this recapitulation of her conduct with cool accuracy until she alluded to their personal relations.  Thereat his brows darkened.

“We had I some trifling together,” he said, musingly.

“Is it going to be denied in these sweeter days?” Violetta reddened.

“The phrase is elastic.  Suppose my bride were to hear it?”

“It was addressed to your ears, Carlo.”

“It cuts two ways.  Will you tell me when it was that I last had the happiness of saluting you, lip to lip?”

“In Brescia—­before I had espoused an imbecile—­two nights before my marriage—­near the fountain of the Greek girl with a pitcher.”

Pride and anger nerved the reply.  It was uttered in a rapid low breath.  Coming altogether unexpectedly, it created an intense momentary revulsion of his feelings by conjuring up his boyish love in a scene more living than the sunlight.

He lifted her hand to his mouth.  He was Italian enough, though a lover, to feel that she deserved more.  She had reddened deliciously, and therewith hung a dewy rosy moisture on her underlids.  Raising her eyes, she looked like a cut orange to a thirsty lip.  He kissed her, saying, “Pardon.”

“Keep it secret, you mean?” she retorted.  “Yes, I pardon that wish of yours.  I can pardon much to my beauty.”

She stood up as majestically as she had spoken.

“You know, my Violetta, that I am madly in love.”

“I have learnt it.”

“You know it:—­what else would . . ?  If I were not lost in love, could I see you as I do and let Brescia be the final chapter?”

Violetta sighed.  “I should have preferred its being so rather than this superfluous additional line to announce an end, like a foolish staff on the edge of a cliff.  You thought that you were saluting a leper, or a saint?”

“Neither.  If ever we can talk together again, as we have done,” Carlo said gloomily, “I will tell you what I think of myself.”

“No, but Richelieu might have behaved . . . .  Ah! perhaps not quite in the same way,” she corrected her flowing apology for him.  “But then, he was a Frenchman.  He could be flighty without losing his head.  Dear Italian Carlo!  Yes, in the teeth of Barto Rizzo, and for the sake of the country, marry her at once.  It will be the best thing for you; really the best.  You want to know from me the whereabout of Barto Rizzo.  He may be in the mountain over Stresa, or in Milan.  He also has thrown off my yoke, such as it was!  I do assure you, Carlo, I have no command over him:  but, mind, I half doat on the wretch.  No man made me desperately in love with myself before he saw me, when I stopped his raving in the middle of the road with one look of my face.  There was foam on his beard and round his eyes; the poor wretch took out his handkerchief, and he sobbed.  I don’t know how many luckless creatures he had killed on his way; but when I took him into my carriage—­king, emperor, orator on stilts, minister of police not one has flattered me as he did, by just gazing at me.  Beauty can do as much as music, my Carlo.”