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But every one
sees it, every one knows it. Every one knows that you are madly in
love with the Signorina."
Artois had stepped back.
"I--in love!" he said.
His voice was contemptuous, but his face had become flushed, and his
hands suddenly clinched themselves.
"What! you play the hypocrite even with yourself! Ah, we Neapolitans,
we may be shocking; but at least we are sincere! You do not know!--
then I will tell you. You love the Signorina madly, and you hate me
because you are jealous of me--because I am young and you are old. I
know it; the Signora knows it; that Sicilian--Gaspare--he knows it!
And now you--you know it!"
He suddenly flung himself down on the sofa that was behind him.
Perspiration was running down his face, and even his hands were wet
with it.
Artois said nothing, but stood where he was, looking at the
Marchesino, as if he were waiting for something more which must
inevitably come. The Marchesino took out his handkerchief, passed it
several times quickly over his lips, then rolled it up into a ball and
shut it up in his left hand.


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