He wondered whether any steps had been taken
towards bringing him to a trial, or whether the cardinal really
knew that he was innocent, and was merely making him act out the
comedy he had himself invented and begun. He was not impatient,
but he was curious to know the truth. It was now the third day
since he had seen Corona, and he had not prepared her for a long
absence. If he heard nothing during the next twenty-four hours it
would be better to take some measures for relieving her anxiety,
if she felt any. The latter reflection, which presented itself
suddenly, startled him a little. Was it possible that she would
allow a week to slip by without expecting to hear from him or
asking herself where he was? That was out of the question. He
admitted the impossibility of such indifference, almost in spite
of himself. He was willing, perhaps, to think her utterly
heartless rather than accept the belief in an affection which went
no farther than to hope that he might be safe; but his vanity or
his intuition, it matters little which of the two, told him that
Corona felt more than that. And yet she did not love him. He sat
for many hours, motionless in his chair, trying to construct the
future out of the past, an effort of imagination in which he
failed signally.
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