"
The countess smiled, as if the rudeness of these words flattered her.
"Well, yes, Mariano. We like each other; I believe I love him as I
never loved any man. I have never told anyone; you are the first one to
hear it from me, because you are my friend, because somehow or other I
tell you everything. We like each other or, rather, I like him much more
than he does me. There is something like gratitude in my love. I don't
deceive myself, Mariano! Thirty-six years! I venture to confess my age
to you. However, I am still presentable; I keep my youth well, but he is
much younger. Years younger and I could almost be his mother."
She was silent for a moment, almost frightened at this difference
between her lover's age and hers, but then she added with a sudden
confidence:
"He likes me, too, I know. I am his adviser, his inspiration; he says
that with me he feels a new strength for work, that he will be a great
man, thanks to me. But I like him more, much more than he does me; there
is almost as great a difference in our affections as there is in our
ages."
"And why do you not love me?" said the master tearfully. "I worship you,
the tables would be turned. I would be the one to surround you with
constant idolatry, and you would let me worship you, caress you, as I
would an idol, my head bowed at its feet."
Concha laughed again, mocking the artist's hoarse voice, his passionate
expression, and his eager eyes.
"Why don't I love you? Master, don't be childish.
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