He knew that the ardour he had felt
to-day in her presence was not Love--had nothing in common with
Love--for when she had cried--'Could you suffer to share me with
another?'--Why, yes, he could suffer it perfectly.
Nothing therefore--nothing in him had remained intact. Even the memory
of his grand passion was now corrupted, sullied, debased. The last spark
of hope was extinct. He had reached his lowest level, never to rise
again.
He was seized by a terrible and frenzied desire to overthrow the idol
that still persistently rose up lofty and enigmatic before his
imagination, do what he would to abase it. With cynical cruelty, he set
himself to insult, to undermine, to mutilate it. The destructive
analysis he had already employed upon himself, he now turned upon Elena.
To those dubious problems which, at one time, he had resolutely put away
from him, he now sought the answer; of all the suspicions which had
formerly presented themselves to him only to disappear without leaving a
trace, he now studied the origin, found them justified and obtained
their confirmation. But whereas he thought to find relief in this
furious work of demolition, he only increased his sufferings, aggravated
his malady and deepened his wounds.
What had been the true cause of Elena's departure two years before?
There were many conflicting rumours at the time, and again when she
married Humphrey Heathfield; but the actual truth of the matter was what
he heard, quite by chance, among other scraps of society gossip, from
Giulio Musellaro one evening as they left the theatre together, nor did
Andrea doubt it for a moment.
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