But would she consent to that?  Would that be her idea of a marriage with the Marchese di Castelmare?  Was it not likely that she would prefer to be Marchesa di Castelmare in the Palazzo Castelmare,—­in Ravenna, where—­ha!—­where Ludovico was, for whom she had so much regard? who was so frequently with her.  That poor Violante!  Of course he knew that there could be no love between her and his nephew.  Ludovico had promised that that marriage should be made.  Ay, marry the uncle, to be the nephew’s mistress with all convenience!  Such things had often been; there was nothing new in the arrangement—­nothing original in the idea—­why, the very stage was full of such examples:  he to be the old duped husband of the farce; he saw it all.

And as these thoughts also suggested themselves to his mind, his heart seemed as though it were clutched by a hand of ice, while his brow throbbed and his head burned with the pulsing blood.

He threw himself on to his chair again, and tore his hair with rage and anguish; and all those vivid and palpitating love-representations which passion had but now painted on the retina of his eye, were reproduced by jealousy with the difference that Ludovico instead of himself was the actor in them.

It was maddening; his brain seemed to reel; a cold sweat broke out all over him.  The fear dashed across his mind that he should really lose his reason.

Was there, he thought to himself, as the terror of this made him shudder—­was there that night in all Ravenna so miserable a being as himself?  And that miserable man, cowering there in the restlessness of his agony, was the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare; he whose whole life had been one placid scene of happiness, prosperity, and content.  Never had he known a passion strong enough and forbidden enough to cause him a pang or a sleepless hour till now.  Had not his life been happy?  What did he want with more?  Ah, if he could but blot out for ever all that the last month had brought with it.  If he could but be again as he had been before this woman had cast her sorcery on him.  Ah, would to God that his eyes had never seen her!

Was it yet too late?  Could he not even now tear her from his mind, shut his eyes to the recollection of her, so command his imagination that it should never again present the image of her to his fancy?

And thereupon forthwith uncommanded fancy was busy with every detail of the beauties that had so made him their slave.  The line of the neck and shoulder which he had looked down on as he stood at the sofa head; all the white ivory from the fresh innocent rosy little ear to the swell of the curves about the bosom; the intoxicating perfume from the heavy tresses of the hair; the lithe slender waist, round and yielding; the slight nervous hands, the touch of whose fingers fired the blood, as a match fires gunpowder; the exquisite feet; and, oh God! that face, whose every feature, as he last looked on it, was harmonized in an expression of love.