He did not try to understand how it all was, but his instinct told
him that she had been tricked into saying the words she had spoken to
San Miniato at Tragara, and that she had never meant them. That at least
was more comprehensible to him than it might have been to a man of
Beatrice's own class. Her head had been turned for a moment, as Ruggiero
would have said, and afterwards she had understood the truth. He had
heard many stories of the kind from his companions. Women were
changeable, of course. Every one knew that. And why? Because men were
bad and tempted them, and moreover because they were so made. He did not
love Beatrice for any moral quality she might or might not possess, he
was far too human, and natural and too little educated to seek reasons
for the passion that devoured him. Since he felt it, it was real. What
other proof of its reality could he need? It never entered his head to
ask for any, and his heart would not have beaten more strongly or less
rudely for twenty reasons, on either side.
And now he was strangely happy and strangely calm as he sat there by
himself. Beatrice could never love him.
Pages:
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270