"Yes. The girl knows she is dying, and wishes very much to see Aurora
for a moment. I suppose it was weak of me to give her any hope."
The Contessa dropped her newspaper and looked into the fire thoughtfully
before she answered.
"You and I are very good friends," she said. "You would not ask me to do
anything you would not do yourself, would you? If you had a daughter of
Aurora's age, should you let her go and see this poor woman, unless it
were an act of real charity?"
"No," Kalmon answered reluctantly. "I don't think I should."
"Thank you for being so honest," Maddalena answered, and looked at the
fire again.
Some time passed before she spoke again, still watching the flames.
Kalmon sighed, for he was very sorry for Regina.
"On the other hand," the Contessa said at last, "it may be a real
charity. Have you any idea why she wishes to see Aurora?"
"No. I cannot guess."
"I can. At least, I think I can." She paused again. "You know
everything about me," she continued presently. "In the course of years I
have told you all my story. Do you think I am a better woman than
Regina?"
"My dear friend!" cried Kalmon, almost angrily. "How can you suggest--"
She turned her clear, sad eyes to him, and her look cut short his
speech.
"What has her sin been?" she asked gently. "She has loved Marcello. What
was mine? That I loved one man too well. Which is the better woman? She,
the peasant, who knew no better, who found her first love dying, and
saved him, and loved him--knowing no better, and braving the world? Or
I, well born, carefully brought up, a woman of the world, and
married--no matter how--not braving the world at all, but miserably
trying to deceive it, and my husband, and my child? Do you think I was
so much better than poor Regina? Would my own daughter think so if she
could know and understand?"
"If you were not a very good woman now," Kalmon said earnestly, "you
could not say what you are saying.
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