“I hope so,” said I.  “My first duty will be to ask her forgiveness; my second to convince her of my repentance; my third——­”

“Oh, spare me your thirdly,” said Aurelia drily.  “I have no doubt what your third duty will be, and I am sure you will perform it admirably.”  She grew red, tears gathered in her eyes—­she stamped her foot.  “Vexatious boy!” she cried out, “I wish to Heaven I had never seen you!  You loved me once—­but I was not ready.  Now that I am—­what I am—­you are not ready.”  “I did you a wrong—­I was a villain.”  A great terror struck me.  “God have mercy upon me,” I cried.  “Aurelia! is it possible—­ is it possible—­that you——?”

She came very near me—­so near that her quick breath fanned my face—­so near that I could distinguish her heart-beats.  She took my hands, tried to draw me to her.

“Yes, yes—­it is possible—­it is possible—­it is certain—­it is true!  I love you—­I need you—­I will follow you across the world.  Do you think me bold?  Judge then of my need.  Do you suppose such a confession easy to a woman—­or lightly made——?  Do you think me a bad woman?  I shall not deny it—­but I shall add to your judgment that I am a loving one.  Ah, there was a time,” she said bitterly—­for she saw my dismay—­“there was a time when you prayed me to love you, and I refused.  If then I had agreed, would you have gone white and red by turns—­would you have averted your eyes—­would you have looked on the ground?” She took me in her eager arms, she clung to me, she strove, panted for a kiss.  “To me, to me, Francis—­you loved me first—­you taught me—­I am yours by right of conquest.  Here I am—­on your breast, the forgiving, the longing Aurelia!”

I cannot express what I felt during this scene.  Painful as it was to me to know myself unaffected by it, it was exquisite grief to me to have her unqueen herself before my eyes.  O Aurelia, to stoop from thy celestial commerce to barter for a kiss!  I know not what I said, nor can remember exactly what it was that I did.  I was, I trust, gentle with her.  I disengaged myself without abruptness and led her to a seat.  I said nothing—­but when she was more at ease within herself, I knelt before her, kissed her hand respectfully, and left her.  It was, I am sure, a case where fewest words were best.  I believe that she was weeping; I know that I was.

Going out of the villa gates into the street, I was aware of a cloaked figure standing at the first corner towards Florence, evidently upon the watch for me.  The moment I was clear of the gate he came to meet me, and I saw that he was followed by another muffled man, and that both carried swords.  I kept my course, however, as if they were no concern of mine, and made room for them to pass me on the side of the wall.  But the first of them stopped in front of me.

“A fine night, Don Francis,” he said.  It was Count Giraldi.

CHAPTER XLIV