She interrupted me with a wild sobbing cry.
"He loved me! Guido loved me!"
"Ay, he loved you, oh, devil in the shape of a woman! he loved you! Come here, here!" and in a fury I could not restrain I dragged her, almost lifted her along to one corner of the vault, where the light of the torches scarcely illumined the darkness, and there I pointed upward. "Above our very heads--to the left of where we stand--the brave strong body of your lover lies, festering slowly in the wet mould, thanks to you!--the fair, gallant beauty of it all marred by the red-mouthed worms--the thick curls of hair combed through by the crawling feet of vile insects--the poor frail heart pierced by a gaping wound--"
"You killed him; you--you are to blame," she moaned, restlessly, striving to turn her face away from me.
"I killed him? No, no, not I, but YOU! He died when he learned your treachery--when he knew you were false to him for the sake of wedding a supposed wealthy stranger--my pistol-shot but put him out of torment. You! you were glad of his death--as glad as when you thought of mine! YOU talk of murder! Oh, vilest among women! if I could murder you twenty times over, what then? Your sins outweigh all punishment!"
And I flung her from me with a gesture of contempt and loathing. This time my words had struck home. She cowered before me in horror--her sables were loosened and scarcely protected her, the richness of her ball costume was fully displayed, and the diamonds on her bosom heaved restlessly up and down as she panted with excitement, rage and fear.
"I do not see," she muttered, sullenly, "why you should blame ME! I am no worse than other women!"
"No worse! no worse!" I cried. "Shame, shame upon you that thus outrage your sex! Learn for once what MEN think of unfaithful wives--for may be you are ignorant. The novels you have read in your luxurious, idle hours have perhaps told you that infidelity is no sin--merely a little social error easily condoned, or set right by the divorce court. Yes! modern books and modern plays teach you so: in them the world swerves upside down, and vice looks like virtue. But I will tell you what may seem to you a strange and wonderful thing! There is no mean animal, no loathsome object, no horrible deformity of nature so utterly repulsive to a true man as a faithless wife! The cowardly murderer who lies in wait for his victim behind some dark door, and stabs him in the back as he passes by unarmed--he, I say, is more to be pardoned than the woman who takes a husband's name, honor, position, and reputation among his fellows, and sheltering herself with these, passes her beauty promiscuously about like some coarse article of commerce, that goes to the highest bidder! Ay, let your French novels and books of their type say what they will--infidelity is a crime, a low, brutal crime, as bad if not worse than murder, and deserves as stern a sentence!"