'So I have learned. I think to myself that perhaps not all men are like that. I tell myself that it will pass. Once the madness passes, he is perfectly agreeable for weeks before it starts again. He has allowed me to show you around; is that the decision of a monster? The man you have met, is he cruel and violent? No. To the outside world he is meek and mild. Only I know the truth of what he is like. But who would ever believe me? If I said anything it is I who would be called mad, not him.'

Here she broke down completely, her head in her hands, sobbing silently. She could not go on, and even turned her back on me when I tried to comfort her. I insisted, and eventually she gave way, throwing herself into my arms and crying without restraint.

I could not yet see my course of action; all I knew was that I would eventually have one. 'You must leave,' I said. 'Leave Venice and your husband.'

'I cannot,' she said scornfully. 'How could I do such a thing? Where would I go?'

'I could . . .'

'No!' she said, really frightened now. 'No, you must say nothing. Do nothing. You must promise me.'

'But I must do something.'

'You must not! Do you think of yourself as a knight in shining armour, rescuing the damsel in distress? We do not live in an age when such things happen. He has rights. I am his property. What would happen? He would deny it all, of course. He would say I was inventing things. He would get someone like Marangoni to say that I was a habitual liar, that I was mad. Do you think that if I told the truth, said that he beats me to become excited . . .'

She broke off, horrified at what she had said, that she had let out more than she wished about her hellish existence.

'Please,' she said, pleading with me. 'Please do not take matters into your own hands. Do not intervene. There is nothing you can do for me. Except to love me a little, show me that there are men who are not monsters, that there is more to love than pain and tears.'

I shook my head in confusion. 'What do you want?'

'I need to think, to clear my head. Meeting you was – I cannot describe it. The moment I saw you I felt something I have never known before. I do not ask you for help; there is nothing you can do for me. I ask you simply for your presence, a little. That is more soothing and comforting than anything you can say or do.'

'You ask for too little.'

'I ask for more than any person has ever given me,' she replied, stroking my cheek. 'And if I asked for more, I might not get it.'

'You doubt me?'

She did not reply, but threw herself on me once more. 'No more words,' she said. 'Not for a while.'

She was ferocious; it was as though, having unburdened herself to me, shown me her secrets, she had no need left of any modesty or caution. She was violent with me, just as others had been violent in their hatred of her; it was her defence, I thought, to respond to her tormentors in such a way. Afterwards she lay once more on the ground, stretched out with a total lack of caution or care.

'I wish I could die now,' she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. 'Do you not agree? To end your life in this place, with the sound of the sea and the trees, the light twinkling through the branches. Will you kill me? It would make me happy, you know. Please, kill me now. I would like to die at your hands.'

I laughed, but her face was serious. 'Then I would never see you again, or talk to you or hold you,' I said. 'And I am a selfish man. Now I have you, I will not let you go so easily, whatever your wishes.'

'Oh, if only I had known men such as you existed! I might have made different choices.'

'Listen,' I said, beginning to pull on my clothes. Time was passing, far quicker than I wished and one of us had to remember the outside world continued to exist. 'How do you wish to proceed now? I need hardly say that I want to repeat this afternoon. Do you want that also? If you do not, then tell me now because I could not stand to be repulsed.'

'What would you do if I refused you?'

'I would leave, and quickly. There is no vital reason to stay here.'

'Do not leave. I really would die if you did.'

'So, what do we do now? We cannot come all the way to the Lido every afternoon. And we cannot meet either in your lodging or mine.'

'I have had no experience in arranging secret meetings with a lover,' she said, and I could hear in her voice a faint tremor of excitement, as though the very idea was bringing her spirits back to life.

'Nor I,' I replied truthfully. 'But I believe it is usual in such circumstances to rent a room, generally in some poor part of the city. It would not be elegant, and would offer few conveniences except privacy. Such things are normally for women of low quality, though, and I would hesitate . . .'

'No! Let us do that! That is what I am. Nothing more than that, and I will be that for you with pleasure.'

I looked closely at her. She was serious.

It was settled, and in the most businesslike terms. There was no need for delicacy of language, for in our acts we had already passed beyond the point of dissimulation. Secrecy was of the essence. I would acquire a room for our meetings. We would be conspicuous to some, no doubt, but not to anyone who might care. As long as we were safe from the prying eyes of other foreigners, we could be safe. The Venetians see all and say nothing.

And so we made our way back, as the evening light was beginning to settle over the city. The gondolier rowed methodically, making us feel safe by his knowing silence. We sat together, side by side, until we were close in, and said not a word to each other. The evening shadows were our conversation, the softness of the light and the calm of the water were our emotions made tangible. Venice is quiet in comparison to most cities, yet it seemed noisy and raucous to my ears as we came in to land. The people walked too fast, had too many reasons for what they did and said, unlike me, as I no longer had any reason or desire to do anything.

I touched her only as I helped her out of the gondola, and our eyes met briefly before the collusion and dissimulation that was to be our life from now on intervened. It was an electric moment, as we both realised how much we were now bound to each other, conspirators together, living a secret life of lies and deceit.

I consider myself a moral man, who upholds the laws of God and man as best as he is able. I was married and, in all the time since I wed my wife, I had never deceived or betrayed her in any way. I hold to my contracts and keep my word. I considered that Louise had been absolved from whatever vows she had sworn by the treatment she had received. She had said too much, and regretted her words, but I now had some idea of the hellish life she endured with her husband. No one owes loyalty to such a person.

I had no such excuse and I try to make none. Except to say that excitement is a drug, and Venice is a treacherous place, which sucks people down. I wanted her, and for the first time in my life all the arguments and reasons which would have stopped me were of no effect. I didn't even consider what I was doing; did not feel guilty for a single moment. All objections I brushed aside. Venice had taken hold of me, and I had rushed into its embrace as willingly as I had rushed into hers.

The rest of the world would not have viewed it with such indulgence, of course; I had seduced another man's wife, and what had begun in hot blood I intended to continue in a spirit of calculation. The life of deception started that moment. 'I must thank you, Mrs Cort, for your assistance today. I trust you did not find it too dull.'

'On the contrary,' she replied. 'And if you wish me to accompany you again, then please do not hesitate to say so. I am sure Mr Cort will not object.'

And then we bade each other farewell in a stiff and formal fashion, and I turned to leave, my heart pounding with excitement.