Marianna sat down again, but without raising her eyes to Andrea, who
hesitated before speaking.

"And will not Signor Gambara's confidence entitle me to his wife's?"
he said in agitated tones. "Can the fair Marianna refuse to tell me
the story of her life?"

"My life!" said Marianna. "It is the life of the ivy. If you wish to
know the story of my heart, you must suppose me equally destitute of
pride and of modesty if you can ask me to tell it after what you have
just heard."

"Of whom, then, can I ask it?" cried the Count, in whom passion was
blinding his wits.

"Of yourself," replied Marianna. "Either you understand me by this
time, or you never will. Try to ask yourself."

"I will, but you must listen. And this hand, which I am holding, is to
lie in mine as long as my narrative is truthful."

"I am listening," said Marianna.

"A woman's life begins with her first passion," said Andrea. "And my
dear Marianna began to live only on the day when she first saw Paolo
Gambara. She needed some deep passion to feed upon, and, above all,
some interesting weakness to shelter and uphold. The beautiful woman's
nature with which she is endowed is perhaps not so truly passion as
maternal love.