In the afternoon I was sent to bed—an aching foot and orders to rest. The doctor took his pupils to church.
Bettina, left at liberty, came in and sat on the edge of my mattress.
I had expected her visit, and I received it with pleasure, as it heralded an explanation for which I was longing.
"I hope I do not offend by taking the first chance for conversation with you," she began.
"No," I answered, "for you thus afford me an occasion of assuring you that, my feelings towards you being those of a friend only, you need not have any fear of my causing you any anxiety or displeasure. Therefore Bettina, you may do whatever suits you; my love is no more."
I added:
"You have at one blow given the death-stroke to the intense passion which was blossoming in my heart. When I reached my room, after the ill-treatment I had experienced at Cordiani's hands, I felt for you nothing but hatred; hatred cooled to contempt; contempt, to indifference, which gave way to esteem when I saw what power there is in your mind."
I looked at her closely and went on:
"I have now become your friend; I have conceived the greatest esteem for your cleverness. I have been the dupe of it, but no matter; that talent of yours does exist, it is wonderful, divine, I admire it, I love it, and the highest homage I can render to it is, in my estimation, to foster for the possessor of it the purest feelings of friendship. Reciprocate that friendship, be true, sincere, and plain dealing. Give up all nonsense, for you have already obtained from me all I can give you."
"The very thought of love is repugnant to me; I can bestow my love only where I feel certain of being the only one loved. You are at liberty to lay my foolish delicacy to the account of my youthful age, but I feel so, and I cannot help it."
"You have written to me that you never speak to Cordiani; if I am the cause of that rupture between you, I regret it, and I think that, in the interest of your honour, you would do well to make it up with him; for the future I must be careful never to give him any grounds for umbrage or suspicion."
I concluded:
"Recollect also that, if you have tempted him by the same maneuvers which you have employed towards me, you are doubly wrong, for it may be that, if he truly loves you, you have caused him to be miserable."
"All you have just said to me," she answered, ""is grounded upon false impressions and deceptive appearances. I do not love Cordiani, and I never had any love for him; on the contrary, I have felt, and I do feel, for him a hatred which he has richly deserved, and I hope to convince you, in spite of every appearance which seems to convict me."
"As to the reproach of seduction, I entreat you to spare me such an accusation. On our side, consider that, if you had not yourself thrown temptation in my way, I never would have committed towards you an action of which I have deeply repented, for reasons which you do not know, but which you must learn from me.
She concluded:
"The fault I have been guilty of is a serious one only because I did not foresee the injury it would do me in the inexperienced mind of the ingrate who dares to reproach me with it."
Bettina was shedding tears. Nothing she had said was impossible—and most of it flattered my vanity—but I had seen too much.
Besides, I knew her cleverness too well not to suspect that her self-love had brought her here, unwilling to let me enjoy a victory that humiliated her.
Therefore, unshaken in my preconceived opinion, I told her I believed everything she said about her state of heart before the playful nonsense which had been the origin of my love for her, and promised never again to mention seduction.
"But," I continued, "confess that the fire at that time burning in your bosom was only of short duration, and that the slightest breath of wind had been enough to extinguish it. Your virtue, which went astray for only one instant, and which has so suddenly recovered its mastery over your senses, deserves some praise."
My tone deepened.
"You, with all your deep adoring love for me, became all at once blind to my sorrow, whatever care I took to make it clear to your sight. It remains for me to learn how that virtue could be so very dear to you, at the very time that Cordiani took care to wreck it every night."
Bettina eyed me with the air of triumph which perfect confidence in victory gives to a person, and said:
"You have reached the point I wished for; you shall now be made aware of things which I could not explain before, owing to your refusing the appointment which I then gave you for no other purpose than to tell you all the truth."
She began:
"Cordiani declared his love a week after entering this house. He spoke of marriage—if his father consented, once his studies were done. I told him no. I told him I scarcely knew him. He appeared to accept it. But vanity, when wounded, takes refuge in cruelty. He begged me later to come dress his hair, as I do yours. I refused. He answered that you were the more fortunate. I laughed, for everyone knew I had the care of you."
"It was a fortnight after my refusal to Cordiani, that I unfortunately spent an hour with you in that loving nonsense which has naturally given you ideas until then unknown to your senses."
"That hour made me very happy: I loved you, and having given way to very natural desires, I reveled in my enjoyment without the slightest remorse of conscience. I was longing to be again with you the next morning, but after supper, misfortune laid for the first time its hand upon me."
At this point, she lowered her voice:
"Cordiani slipped in my hands this note and this letter which I have since hidden in a hole in the wall, with the intention of shewing them to you at the first opportunity."
Saying this, Bettina handed me the note and the letter; the first ran as follows:
"Admit me this evening in your closet, the door of which, leading to the yard, can be left ajar, or prepare yourself to make the best of it with the doctor, to whom I intend to deliver, if you should refuse my request, the letter of which I enclose a copy."
The letter contained the statement of a cowardly and enraged informer, and would certainly have caused the most unpleasant results.
In that letter, Cordiani informed the doctor that his sister spent her mornings with me in criminal connection while he was saying his mass, and he pledged himself to enter into particulars which would leave him no doubt.
She said at last:
"After giving to the case the consideration it required, I made up my mind to hear that monster; but my determination being fixed, I had my father's stiletto hidden in my sleeve."
She drew a breath.
"I asked if he meant what he wrote. He said he did. Said he'd seen everything—through a hole he created above your bed. If I refused him the same favours, he would tell my brother, my mother."
Her voice thinned to a whisper.
"I called him coward, liar, spy. He begged my pardon a thousand times and swore that it was love, not vengeance—that he'd gone mad wanting me."
"He acknowledged that his letter might be a slander, that he had acted treacherously, and he pledged his honour never to attempt obtaining from me by violence favours which he desired to merit only by the constancy of his love."
Her hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist.
"So, I lied, I then thought myself to some extent compelled to say that I might love him at some future time, and to promise that I would not again come near your bed during the absence of my brother. In this way I dismissed him satisfied, without his daring to beg for so much as a kiss."
She sank into the chair beside me.
"Three weeks. That's why you saw nothing of me. I feared my face would betray everything."
Her eyes lifted—clear, imploring.
"Once a week I let him speak to me, only a few minutes, just enough to keep him quiet. Then came the night of the ball. I meant to end it. I thought, if you came with me in disguise, I could tell you all."
"But my brother left with my father. You waited outside. He waited within. He wanted to flee with me—to Ferrara. He said his uncle would shelter us, that love absolves all sin."
She gave a bitter laugh.
"Love! I argued until dawn, and he wept like a penitent. My heart was bleeding as I thought of you; but my conscience is at rest, and I did nothing that could render me unworthy of your esteem. You cannot refuse it to me, unless you believe that the confession I have just made is untrue; but you would be both mistaken and unjust."
"Had I made up my mind to sacrifice myself and to grant favours which love alone ought to obtain, I might have got rid of the treacherous wretch within one hour, but death seemed preferable to such a dreadful expedient."
She pressed both hands to her eyes.
"Could I in any way suppose that you were outside of my door, exposed to the wind and to the snow? Both of us were deserving of pity, but my misery was still greater than yours."
Her voice broke.
"All these fearful circumstances were written in the book of fate, to make me lose my reason, which now returns only at intervals, and I am in constant dread of a fresh attack of those awful convulsions."
Her composure gave way.
"They say I am bewitched, and possessed of the demon; I do not know anything about it, but if it should be true, I am the most miserable creature in existence."
Then came the collapse.
Her body folded inward, her sobs deep and racking, as though each breath were a wound reopening.
I was deeply moved, although I felt that all she had said might be true, and yet was scarcely worthy of belief:
Forse era ver, ma non però credibile
A chi del senso suo fosse signor.
(Perhaps it was true, but not believable to one who is master of his reason.)
But she was weeping, and her tears, which at all events were not deceptive, took away from me the faculty of doubt.
Yet I put her tears to the account of her wounded self-love; to give way entirely I needed a thorough conviction, and to obtain it evidence was necessary, probability was not enough.
I could not admit either Cordiani's moderation or Bettina's patience, or the fact of seven hours employed in innocent conversation.
In spite of all these considerations, I felt a sort of pleasure in accepting for ready cash all the counterfeit coins that she had spread out before me.
She dried her cheeks, gathered herself, and fixed those bright, steady eyes upon mine, thinking that she could discern in them evident signs of her victory; I let her look, then spoke of the one point her tale had prudently forgotten.
"Well, my dear Bettina," I said, "your story has affected me; but how do you think I am going to accept your convulsions as natural, and to believe in the demoniac symptoms which came on so seasonably during the exorcisms, although you very properly expressed your doubts on the matter?"
Hearing this, she stared at me; the silence held for a few minutes; then her gaze fell and fresh tears came in sudden drops. "Poor me… oh, poor me," she murmured—
The sight pained me; I couldn't help but ask. "Bettina, what can I do for you?"
"If your heart does not suggest to you what to do," she said softly in a sad tone, "I have nothing to demand."
She rose, sorrow lending grandeur to the simple turn of her wrist.
"I thought," said she, "that I would reconquer my lost influence over your heart, but, I see it too plainly, you no longer feel an interest in me. Go on treating me harshly; go on taking for mere fictions sufferings which are but too real, which you have caused, and which you will now increase. Someday, but too late, you will be sorry, and your repentance will be bitter indeed."
She moved to the door, but judging her capable of anything I felt afraid, and I detained her to say:
"If you would regain my affection, remain one month without convulsions— without handsome Father Mancia's presence being required."
"I cannot help being convulsed," she answered; then, quick as a flash, "but what do you mean by applying to the Jacobin that epithet of handsome? Could you suppose—?"
"Not at all, not at all—I suppose nothing; to do so would be necessary for me to be jealous. But I cannot help saying that the preference given by your devils to the exorcism of that handsome monk over the incantations of the ugly Capuchin is likely to give birth to remarks rather detrimental to your honour. Moreover, you are free to do whatever pleases you."
Her mouth tightened. She left.
After supper the maid appeared unbidden at the door, a folded napkin in her hands. She said Bettina had taken to her bed with violent chills, and that her mattress had been carried to the kitchen beside her mother's.
I nodded and said nothing.
The fever might be real; yet I doubted it.
To be suddenly well would arm me too handsomely against her tale of innocence, and I did not think she would consent to such a disadvantage.
As for the new station of her bed—so publicly near her mother—it struck me as forethought rather than comfort.
In devout households a malady is not always an affliction; it is sometimes a veil. Bettina knew how to draw it.