sigh in which baffled passion mingled with grief and
repentance.

Benedetta seated herself, breathing hard, her strength and courage
wellnigh exhausted. But as Pierre, too much embarrassed to speak, turned
towards the door, she addressed him in a calmer voice: "No, no, Monsieur
l'Abbe, do not go away--sit down, I pray you; I should like to speak to
you for a moment."

He thereupon thought it his duty to account for his sudden entrance, and
explained that he had found the door of the first _salon_ ajar, and that
Victorine was not in the ante-room, though he had seen her work lying on
the table there.

"Yes," exclaimed the Contessina, "Victorine ought to have been there; I
saw her there but a short time ago. And when my poor Dario lost his head
I called her. Why did she not come?" Then, with sudden expansion, leaning
towards Pierre, she continued: "Listen, Monsieur l'Abbe, I will tell you
what happened, for I don't want you to form too bad an opinion of my poor
Dario. It was all in some measure my fault. Last night he asked me for an
appointment here in order that we might have a quiet chat, and as I knew
that my aunt would be absent at this time to-day I told him to come. It
was only natural--wasn't it?--that we should want to see one another and
come to an agreement after the grievous news that my marriage will
probably never be annulled. We suffer too much, and must form a decision.
And so when he came this evening we began to weep and embrace, mingling
our tears together. I kissed him again and again, telling him how I
adored him, how bitterly grieved I was at being the cause of his
sufferings, and how surely I should die of grief at seeing him so
unhappy. Ah! no doubt I did wrong; I ought not to have caught him to my
heart and embraced him as I did, for it maddened him, Monsieur l'Abbe; he
lost his head, and would have made me break my vow to the Blessed
Virgin."

She spoke these words in all tranquillity and simplicity, without sign of
embarrassment, like a young and beautiful woman who is at once sensible
and practical. Then she resumed: "Oh! I know my poor Dario well, but it
does not prevent me from loving him; perhaps, indeed, it only makes me
love him the more. He looks delicate, perhaps rather sickly, but in truth
he is a man of passion. Yes, the old blood of my people bubbles up in
him. I know something of it myself, for when I was a child I sometimes
had fits of angry passion which left me exhausted on t