“Then I must go, Ginevra!” And, suddenly bursting into tears, she pressed her lips to the little bust, the successful production of her labor and grief. “O my angel child!” said she, “forgive me. I know it; I ought to love no one but thee. I have been punished, cruelly punished. And yet I am not sure of myself, Ginevra. I do not wish to see him again. I must go.” It was the first time in her life Stella had thus allowed me to read the depths of her heart. It was the first time the violence of any emotion whatever broke down the wall of reserve she knew how to maintain, and made her rise above her natural repugnance to speak of herself. It was the first time I was sure of the wound I had so long suspected, but which I had never ventured to probe. God alone knows with what emotion I listened to her. What hopes were awakened, and what prayers rose from my heart during the moment’s silence that followed these ardent words. She soon continued, with renewed agitation: “Yes, I must start at once. I had no idea he would arrive in this way without giving me time to escape!…” Then she added, in a hollow tone: “Listen, Ginevra. For once I must be frank with you. He loves you, you well know, and now there is nothing more to separate you; now you are free.…” But she stopped short, surprised, I think, at the way in which I looked at her. “She also! Is it possible?” murmured I, replying to my own thoughts. And my eyes, that had been fixed on her, involuntarily looked upward at the light that came from the only window in the studio. I soon said in a calm tone: “You are mistaken, Stella. I am not free, as you suppose. But let us not speak of myself, I beg.…” She listened without comprehending me, and her train of thought, interrupted for a moment, resumed its course. I was far from wishing to check a communicativeness her suffering heart had more need of than she was aware. I allowed her, therefore, to pour out without hindrance all that burdened her mind. I suffered her to give way to her unreasonable remorse. I did not even contradict her when she repeated that her sweet treasure would not have been ravished from her, had she been worthy of possessing it, if no other love had been allowed to enter her heart. I did not oppose this fancy, which was only one of those _perfidies de l’amour_, as such imaginary wrongs have been happily styled, which, after the occurrence of misfortune, often add to one’s actual sorrow a burden still heavier and more difficult to bear. On the contrary, I assured her we would start together, and she herself should fix the day of our departure.