I shall not deny that the overnight’s tenderness may have wrought in me the dangerous ecstasy which was to prove so cruel a requital of it; for it is of the nature of love to be inflamed by the least hint of a neighbouring, answering fire.  I believe that I could have been for ever Aurelia’s mute, adoring, unasking slave, but for the fact that she had sighed, and whispered me “Checho,” and twice suffered me to kiss her hands.  Fatal benevolence that lifted suddenly the meek!  Fatal wealth bestowed that made the pauper purse-proud!  I had passed the night in a transport of triumphant joy; throughout the day succeeding it I felt my wings.  “Nunc,” I could exclaim with Propertius.

“Nunc mihi summa licet sidera contingere plantis.”  And that exalted strain, which was my perdition, alas, was hers also!

That which followed was a very hot still night, with thunder in the Euganean hills; and Aurelia may have been lax or languid, or in my miserable person some of the summer’s fire may have throbbed.  It was late, near nine o’clock; already old Nonna had given three warnings of the hour, and was only delaying the last while she stirred the ingredients of the doctor’s minestrone over the fire.  The knowledge that she must come in, and I go out, shortly, at any moment, fretted my quick senses to fever.  I looked for ever at Aurelia with a wildly beating heart; she, on her side, was aware of my agitation, and breathed the shorter for the knowledge.  She sat by the open window mending a pair of stays; at her side was her work table, upon that her three-wicked lamp.  I leaned over a chair exactly in front of her, watching every slight tremor or movement, just as a dog watches a morsel which he longs for but is forbidden to touch.  Thrice a dog that I was!  I felt like a dog that night.

We had read little and spoken less; the airless night forbade it; for the last half hour no words had passed between us but a faint, “Ah, go now, go now, Checho,” from her, and from me my prayer of “Not yet, not yet—­let me stay with you.”  Aurelia was tired, and now and again put down her work with a sigh, to gaze out of the window into the soft deeps of the night, gemmed as it was with fireflies and wavering moths.  How prone is youth to fatuous conceits!  I imagined that she suffered with me; I identified her pains with mine; I thought that she loved me and had not the heart to bid me begone.  That new wicked feeling of triumph, that new exultation in manly strength, that delirium, that poisonous frenzy, came flooding over me.  Some gesture of hers more than commonly eloquent may have set me on fire; I may have seen her tremble, I may have guessed a tear.  More insensate folly than mine can be lent by youth on less security than this.  For there sat I quivering with love, and there before me, unlaced, in loose attire, in all the luxury of lassitude, breathed and sighed the loveliest of women.  I cannot explain what I dare not extenuate:  dowering her with my own madness, I forgot her honour, my own, the world, and God.  I leaned forward towards her, took her languid hand, and, holding it in my own, said quietly—­very quietly, “I love you—­you are my soul.”