Marco Visconti - chapter XXVII
by Tommaso Grossi
revised, edited and reworked by Gianfranco Maitilasso Grossi
SUSPICION
“That must be Tremacoldo,” cried Beatrice, suddenly revived as soon as the song had ceased.
“I recognize his voice. Oh, perhaps he has come to bring me news. If only I could see him! To see a familiar face would give me courage and dispel these doubts.”
“But what doubts have you? Why are you so agitated? Your husband will be here in two days—he promised you that. Why then—”
“Hush!” interrupted the mistress, pressing her finger to her lips.
They remained silent for a while, hoping the song would begin again; but nothing came except the distant howling of dogs.
At last, Beatrice, losing hope, returned to her seat by the table. Watching the damsel close the window, she resumed her broken thought.
“You ask why I am so suspicious, why I am so disturbed?”
Her voice trembled with the anguish of one about to reveal a dreadful secret. Yet she turned her eyes toward her companion in misfortune, who came to sit beside her, sighed deeply, and said no more.
“What is it?” asked Lauretta anxiously. “Do you know something new? Is there a mystery? Tell me, pray tell me!”
“No, no—be still; it is nothing.”
“How can I be still? Since yesterday you have carried something heavy in your heart, something you wish to hide from me. Please, tell me!”
“Let me alone,” repeated the lady.
But the damsel, taking her hand tenderly and pressing it between hers, said with deep emotion:
“Dear Beatrice, my sweet mistress, did you not promise to share all the good and evil of your life with me?”
“Oh, my good Lauretta!” replied Beatrice, struggling to hold back her tears. “It adds to my sorrow to think of you, who for my sake left your loving parents and peaceful home for this uncertain fate. But God is merciful—He will save you. Believe me, I pray for you often amid my mortal anguish.”
“Alas!” said the maiden, even more dismayed. “Your words foretell misfortune. Do not keep me in suspense.”
Beatrice rose and opened a small casket on the table.
“Do you see,” she said, “these papers?”
“Yes; they are the letters your husband writes to you every day.”
“So I believed—and that was the last thread on which my life hung. Now that thread is broken. The letters did not come from Ottorino.”
“May the Lord have mercy on us!” cried Lauretta, turning pale as death. “But who could—how did you find it out?”
“Yesterday you brought me this white rose I wear upon my breast, did you not?”
“Yes; it was given to me by the old woman who brings our food.”
“And you told me the seneschal’s wife sent it to me?”
“I did.”
“Do you know who she is?”
