Under these circumstances it was not probable that Sant' Ilario
would make any exhibition of his jealousy for some time to come.
As he paced the floor of his room, the bitterness of his situation
slowly sank from the surface, leaving his face calm and almost
serene. He forced himself to look at the facts again and again,
trying bravely to be impartial and to survey them as though he
were the judge and not the plaintiff. He admitted at last that
there was undoubtedly abundant matter for jealousy, but Corona
still stood protected as it were by the love he bore her, a love
which even her guilt would be unable to destroy. His love indeed,
must outlast everything, all evil, all disgrace, and he knew it.
He thought of that Latin poet who, writing to his mistress, said
in the bitterness of his heart that though she were to become the
best woman in the world he could never again respect her, but that
he could not cease to love her, were she guilty of all crimes. He
knew that if the worst turned out true that must be his case, and
perhaps for the first time in his life he understood all the
humanity of Catullus, and saw how a man might love even what he
despised.
Happily matters had not yet come to that. He knew that he might be
deceived, and that circumstantial evidence was not always to be
trusted.
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