Gianluca watched them at first, but soon his head fell back,
and he stared at the ceiling. Death had entered into his soul. He had
guessed half the truth. But in the state in which he was on that
evening, and after what had passed between him and Veronica, the
suspicion alone would have been enough. Nothing could have saved him
from it, since it was indeed the truth. Such passionate, strong love
could only hide itself so long as it lived in the even, unchanging light
of monotonous days. In the flash of a danger, a terror, a violent
chance, its shape stood out for an instant and was not to be mistaken.
Gianluca scarcely spoke again on that evening. The next morning, before
he left his own room, Taquisara was with him, walking up and down and
smoking while Gianluca drank his coffee. They had been discussing the
accident of the previous evening, and Taquisara had laughed over it. But
Gianluca was sad and grave.
"I wish to ask you a question," he said, after a short silence. "When I
fainted, that day--did Don Teodoro pronounce all the proper words? You
must have heard him. Was it a real marriage, without any defect of
form?"
Taquisara stopped in his walk and hesitated. After all, since Don
Teodoro had written to him that the marriage must be performed again, it
was much better that Gianluca should be prepared for it, since he
himself had put the question.
"Since you ask me," answered Taquisara, after a moment's thought, "I may
as well tell you what I know.
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