There is nothing remarkable in my possession of feelings which no honourable man should be without; nor can I see that what I was moved to do, in consequence of having those feelings, was any way out of the common.  If the sweet subservience and careful ministry of Aurelia had moved her husband’s admiration, how much the more must they have moved mine!  And what is more natural to the ardent explorer than to announce his discoveries?  I had learned that I had loved an angelic being; what wonder that I desired to inform the one person in the world who had a right to know it, that such was my extreme privilege?  Of this I am content, reader, to be judged by thee.  If my enthusiasm was extravagant, surely it was pardonable.  Judge me then as thou wilt, and as thou canst, for the end of this chapter of my history is cardinal.

But there were these moving considerations also.  If Aurelia had tacitly reproached herself to her husband with what were my crimes, and only mine—­was it not my bounden duty to save her before it were too late?  Must I not avow what, as it seemed, she was on the point of avowing?  If she—­pure innocent—­believed herself guilty and needing forgiveness—­ whereas I and I only was that monster—­in a few moments’ time, when she should be with her husband in the innermost shrine of the Temple of Hymen, I might be sure she would take upon herself the guilt, and alone receive my punishment.  Could I endure the thought of this, miserable that I was?  Could I suffer such a sacrifice and wear the livery of man?  I knew that I could not.  “Out, therefore, of thy hiding-place, sinner,” I bade myself, “and get the vice scourged out of thee.”

These were a part of my reflections, this was my plain resolution.  Generous, honourable, they seemed to me then—­honourable alike to Aurelia and to her husband.  The doctor had replenished his glass, and was leaning back in his chair.  He had released some of the buttons of his vest, and they had flown to their repose.  He was looking down at the table, where he twisted the glass about; he was thinking of his wife, of her sweet humour, innocence and purity—­of everything which I so adored and had dared to tarnish.  He was frowning and smiling at once at his thoughts.  I heard him say to himself, “That’s a good girl—­that’s a good girl of mine”—­when I walked out of the cupboard and stood, pale but composed, before him at the opposite side of the table.  Even then, so absorbed he was in his mellow humours he did not hear me.  “Eh, la Madonna!” he mused—­“as good as gold!” He stretched his legs out to the full and glanced with lazy luxury round about his room.  Then he saw me.

CHAPTER V

DISASTER

“Light of Light!” he said in a horrible whisper—­and again, “Very God—­”

“Doctor Lanfranchi,” said I seriously, for my passion lifted me up, “Doctor Lanfranchi, she is better than refined gold.”