“Well,” she said at last.  “Well! have you nothing to say to me, now that you have found me?”

“Madam,” said I, “my fault——­”

“Oh,” cried she in a rage.  “Your fault!  Do you not see how hateful your ‘fault’ makes me appear?  Do you think the best way of amending this wonderful fault of yours is to be for ever bewailing it?  Has a gentleman never loved a lady before, or am I a lady whom no man should love?  Do you suppose I am flattered to learn that you have hunted me all over Italy only for the pleasure of telling me that you are ashamed of ever having loved me?”

I said, “I loved you unworthily—­I played a knave’s part.  I distorted your lovely image, I presumed upon your gracious kindness.  I was accursed—­accursed.  I did sacrilege—­I profaned the temple.”  I strode about before her declaiming against myself, not looking at her.

She laughed her vexation away.  “My poor Checho,” she said, “if you knew, if you could understand!  Those days and nights of ours were very sweet.  Come, let us walk a little.  It is chilly here.  Come, we will go into the house and you shall tell me of your travels.”  She took my arm; I led her back to the house.

I sat by her side in the little saloon which had been Donna Giulia’s boudoir, and served Aurelia now for the same purpose; and judging honesty the kindest, and only, course, I told her everything of my defence of Virginia, hinting at the same time at my suspicions of Count Giraldi.  I said that the poor child had certainly been betrayed to the marchese, that the count and Father Carnesecchi alone had known her story, that I could not suspect the Jesuit, and therefore——­At this point Aurelia stopped me, not by any words, but by her appearance of being upon the point of words.  She was very much excited, but she controlled her speech; and I went on to tell her that, in consequence of that betrayal, I had felt bound to make Virginia my wife.  At this I thought that she was ill.  She stared at me as if I had suddenly stabbed her; she went perfectly white.  “Your wife!” she whispered—­“you have——­ "

“Madam,” I said, “that is the truth.  I have never shrunk from my duty, I believe, and never saw duty plainlier than then.  I married Virginia, or thought that I did; but it now appears that my marriage was none at all—­ not by my fault, but by that noble girl’s mistaken generosity.  And now that I have lost her I must by all means find her.  She must be mine for ever.”

Aurelia had recovered her colour and self-possession.  She was now also very angry, tapping her foot and breathing fast.  She looked disdainfully at me, and reproachfully.  “But,” she said, with scorn, “But what I am to think of you, Don Francis?  Do you purpose to spend your life seeking ladies whom you have compromised?  No sooner have you lost me than you look for another!  And when you find your wife—­as you choose to call her—­if you are so fortunate, shall you treat her as you have treated me?”