he floor, and even
now, when the gusts arise within me, I have to fight against myself and
torture myself in order that I may not act madly. But my poor Dario does
not know how to suffer. He is like a child whose fancies must be
gratified. And yet at bottom he has a good deal of common sense; he waits
for me because he knows that the only real happiness lies with the woman
who adores him."

As Pierre listened he was able to form a more precise idea of the young
prince, of whose character he had hitherto had but a vague perception.
Whilst dying of love for his cousin, Dario had ever been a man of
pleasure. Though he was no doubt very amiable, the basis of his
temperament was none the less egotism. And, in particular, he was unable
to endure suffering; he loathed suffering, ugliness, and poverty, whether
they affected himself or others. Both his flesh and his soul required
gaiety, brilliancy, show, life in the full sunlight. And withal he was
exhausted, with no strength left him but for the idle life he led, so
incapable of thought and will that the idea of joining the new _regime_
had not even occurred to him. Yet he had all the unbounded pride of a
Roman; sagacity--a keen, practical perception of the real--was mingled
with his indolence; while his inveterate love of woman, more frequently
displayed in charm of manner, burst forth at times in attacks of frantic
sensuality.

"After all he is a man," concluded Benedetta in a low voice, "and I must
not ask impossibilities of him." Then, as Pierre gazed at her, his
notions of Italian jealousy quite upset, she exclaimed, aglow with
passionate adoration: "No, no. Situated as we are, I am not jealous. I
know very well that he will always return to me, and that he will be mine
alone whenever I please, whenever it may be possible."

Silence followed; shadows were filling the room, the gilding of the large
pier tables faded away, and infinite melancholy fell from the lofty, dim
ceiling and the old hangings, yellow like autumn leaves. But soon, by
some chance play of the waning light, a painting stood out above the sofa
on which the Contessina was seated. It was the portrait of the beautiful
young girl with the turban--Cassia Boccanera the forerunner, the
_amorosa_ and avengeress. Again was Pierre struck by the portrait's
resemblance to Benedetta, and, thinking aloud, he resumed: "Passion
always proves the stronger; there invariably comes a moment when one
succumbs--"

But Ben