Amelie's eyes were
suffused with tears of pity, for her heart had beat time to the
music of Dante's immortal verse as it dropped in measured cadence
from the lips of Philibert.
She had read the pathetic story before, but never comprehended until
now the weakness which is the strength of love. Oh, blessed paradox
of a woman's heart! And how truly the Commedia, which is justly
called Divine, unlocks the secret chambers of the human soul.
"Read no more, Pierre," said she, "that book is too terrible in its
beauty and in its sadness! I think it was written by a disembodied
spirit who had seen all worlds, knew all hearts, and shared in all
sufferings. It sounds to me like the sad voice of a prophet of
woe."
"Amelie," replied he, "believe you there are women faithful and true
as Francesca da Rimini? She would not forsake Paolo even in the
gloomy regions of despair. Believe you that there are such women?"
Amelie looked at him with a quick, confident glance. A deep flush
covered her cheek, and her breath went and came rapidly; she knew
what to answer, but she thought it might seem overbold to answer
such a question.
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