. . . Let me know that you exist, let me
see you sometimes, even though you may have forgotten me, even though
you may pass me with indifference, as if you did not know me."
In this outburst her deep love for him rang true--her heroic and
inflexible love which would accept all penalties for herself, if only
the beloved one might continue to live.
But then, in order that Julio might not feel any false hopes, she
added:--"Live; you must not die; that would be for me another torment.
. . . But live without me. No matter how much we may talk about it, my
destiny beside the other one is marked out forever."
"Ah, how you love him! . . . How you have deceived me!"
In a last desperate attempt at explanation she again repeated what she
had said at the beginning of their interview. She loved Julio . . . and
she loved her husband. They were different kinds of love. She could not
say which was the stronger, but misfortune was forcing her to choose
between the two, and she was accepting the most difficult, the one
demanding the greatest sacrifices.
"You are a man, and you will never be able to understand me. . . . A
woman would comprehend me."
It seemed to Julio, as he looked around him, as though the afternoon
were undergoing some celestial phenomenon. The garden was still
illuminated by the sun, but the green of the trees, the yellow of the
ground, the blue of the sky, all appeared to him as dark and shadowy as
though a rain of ashes were falling.
Pages:
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366