Murderer! Yes,--that was what he had
chosen to make of himself!
"It was all an impulse," he muttered,--"Just a hot impulse, nothing
more! Just a sudden hatred of her which made me stab her! It was
enough to make any man angry to see such a picture as that painted
by a woman! Her fame would have ruined mine! But I never meant to
kill her--no--no, I never meant to kill her!"
Shuddering and whimpering, he huddled himself in a corner of the
carriage, and did not dare to look out of the window to see which
way he was being driven. He only rallied a little when the wheels
moved more quietly and smoothly, and he knew that he was on the open
road, and out of Rome. Suddenly, after jolting along a considerable
time, the vehicle stopped, and the driver shouted to him. Varillo
dashed down the window and put his head out, almost beside himself
with rage.
"What are you stopping for! What are you stopping for!" he yelled.
"Go on--go on--we are not half way to Frascati yet! Go on, I tell
you!"
"Ma-che! Eccellenza, I only stopped to ask a question!"
"What question--what? Is this a time for asking questions?" cried
Varillo,--"The night is falling,--I want to get on!"
"But we are going on as fast as we can!" expostulated the driver,--
"It is only this--there is an albergo on the way--where we can get
food and wine.
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