And this suspicion would gnaw at her heart, embittering
kisses and caresses, till it was dissipated by the transports and ardent
passion of her incomprehensible lover.
She was jealous. Jealousy was her implacable tormentor; not jealousy of
the present but of the past. With the cruelty that jealous people
exercise against themselves, she would have wished to read the secrets
of Andrea's memory, to find the traces left there by former mistresses,
to know--to know--. The question that most often rose to her lips if
Andrea seemed moody and silent was, 'What are you thinking about?' And
yet, at the very moment of asking the question, a shadow would cross her
eyes and her spirit, an inevitable rush of sadness would rise out of her
heart.
To-day again, when he turned up so unexpectedly in the street, had she
not had an instinctive movement of suspicion? With a flash of lucidity,
the idea had leapt into her mind that Andrea was coming from the Palazzo
Barberini, from Lady Heathfield.
She knew that Andrea had been this woman's lover; she knew that her name
was Elena; she knew also that she was the Elena of the inscription--'Ich
lebe!' Goethe's distich rang painfully in her heart. That lyric cry gave
her the measure of Andrea's love for this most beautiful woman. He must
have loved her boundlessly!
Walking slowly under the trees, she recalled Elena's appearance in the
concert-hall and the ill-disguised uneasiness of the old lover.
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