“What right have you to say, Paolina, that I should ever, or could ever love another but you?” said Ludovico, indignantly.

“Nay, Ludovico, must you not do so always?  Are you not professing to do so even now?  Are you not promising your love to the Contessa Violante? will she not have a better right to your love than I?”

Ludovico started, and drawing himself a little back from Paolina, looked at her with reproachful surprise.  It was not that he was surprised at learning that she was aware of his engagement to the Contessa.  He had, as has been said, concealed nothing from her in that respect.  But he was vexed, and surprised at the feeling she manifested on the subject.

“You surprise me, Paolina!” he said.  “Would it have been better if I had concealed all this from you?  Many men,—­most men perhaps, in similar circumstances would have done so.  But I cannot treat you in that way.  I have been, and would always be open and sincere to you in all things.  You know all about this match.  You know that it is a family arrangement managed by my uncle.  You know, that if I wished it ever so much, I can’t avoid it.  You know, or ought to know, that it is not, and cannot be a matter of affection in any way.  You know that in the world such marriages are arranged and are known and understood to be arranged, for reasons, and on ground with which love has nothing to do.  Does not all Ravenna know, including the lady herself doubtless, that I am to marry her because she is the great-niece of the Cardinal Legate?  Can I be expected to love her, because she is the Cardinal’s niece?  Surely, my Paolina, you are not speaking or thinking of this matter, with your usual good sense!”

“I can’t help it, Ludovico; I am, at all events speaking with my whole heart!” she said in a tone of profound sadness.  “If what you say is true,—­and do not imagine, dearest, that I have the smallest doubt that all you say to me is entirely and perfectly true,—­just think of the lot of that povera Contessa Violante!  Poverina!  I dare say she,—­think of the wrong I should be doing her!  Think how she would hate me!” She shuddered as she spoke.  “Nobody, I think, ever hated me yet,” she continued; “and it seems to me so horrible to be hated.  And more horrible still to know that I should be justly hated!  And then, tesoro mio!—­Mio!—­How could I ever say mio?  Never, never, never, mio!” she cried, bursting into passionate tears.  “No, never mine!  The very word itself, which comes so naturally to my lips, tells me, like a knell in my heart, that it can never be!”

“But, Paolina, angiola mia,” said Ludovico, who had heard her with a look of consternation, “what has thus changed you?  For it is a change.  You knew all these things before.  What has occurred to put such notions into your mind all of a sudden?”

“Not all of a sudden, Ludovico!  The blessed Virgin knows for how many sad and solitary hours I have been thinking, and thinking, and thinking of all this!  She knows how many nights I have passed in tears to think of it.  What has put it into my head, you say?  Ludovico, it is my love for you that has put it into my head!  It is my strong love that has opened my eyes, and made me see that I cannot—­cannot—­I mean—­that I cannot share your love with another!”