The officers smiled in spite of themselves, as they drank the proffered wine, and the youngest-looking of the party, a brisk, handsome fellow, entered into the spirit of the captain with ardor, though he evidently thought he should trap him into a confession unawares, by the apparent carelessness and bonhomie of his manner.

"Bravo, Andrea!" he cried, merrily. "So! let us all be friends together! Besides, what harm is there in taking a brigand for a passenger—no doubt he would pay you better than most cargoes!"

But Andrea was not to be so caught. On the contrary; he raised his hands and eyes with an admirably feigned expression of shocked alarm.

"Our Lady and the saints forgive you!" he exclaimed, piously, "for thinking that I, an honest marinaro, would accept one baiocco from an accursed brigand! Ill-luck would follow me ever after! Nay, nay—there has been a mistake; I know nothing of Carmelo Neri, and I hope the saints will grant that I may never meet him!"

He spoke with so much apparent sincerity that the officers in command were evidently puzzled, though the fact of their being so did not deter them from searching the brig thoroughly. Disappointed in their expectations, they questioned all on board, including myself, but were of course unable to obtain any satisfactory replies. Fortunately they accepted my costume as a sign of my trade, and though they glanced curiously at my white hair, they seemed to think there was nothing suspicious about me. After a few more effusive compliments and civilities on the part of the captain, they took their departure, completely baffled, and quite convinced that the information they had received had been somehow incorrect. As soon as they were out of sight, the merry Andrea capered on his deck like a child in a play-ground, and snapped his fingers defiantly.

"Per Bacco!" he cried, ecstatically, "they should as soon make a priest tell confessional secrets, as force me, honest Andrea Luziani, to betray a man who has given me good cigars! Let them run back to Gaeta and hunt in every hole and corner! Carmelo may rest comfortably in the Montemaggiore without the shadow of a gendarme to disturb him! Ah, signor!" for I had advanced to bid him farewell—"I am truly sorry to part company with you! You do not blame me for helping away a poor devil who trusts me?"

"Not I!" I answered him heartily. "On the contrary, I would there were more like you. Addio I and with this," here I gave him the passage-money we had agreed upon, "accept my thanks. I shall not forget your kindness; if you ever need a friend, send to me."

"But," he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, "how can I do that if the signor does not tell me his name?"

I had thought of this during the past night. I knew it would be necessary to take a different name, and I had resolved on adopting that of a school-friend, a boy to whom I had been profoundly attached in my earliest youth, and who had been drowned before my eyes while bathing in the Venetian Lido. So I answered Andrea's question at once and without effort.

"Ask for the Count Cesare Oliva," I said. "I shall return to Naples shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there."

The Sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly.

"I guessed well," he remarked, smilingly, "that the Signor Conte's hands were not those of a coral-fisher. Oh, yes! I know a gentleman when I see him—though we Sicilians say we are all gentlemen. It is a good boast, but alas! not always true! A rivederci, signor! Command me when you will—I am your servant!"

Pressing his hand, I sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay.

"A rivederci!" I called to him. "Again, and yet again, a thousand thanks!"

"Oh! tropp' onore, signor—tropp' onore!" and thus I left him, standing still bareheaded on the deck of his little vessel, with a kindly light on his brown face like the reflection of a fadeless sunbeam. Good-hearted, merry rogue! His ideas of right and wrong were oddly mixed—yet his lies were better than many truths told us by our candid friends—and you may be certain the great Recording Angel knows the difference between a lie that saves and a truth that kills, and metes out Heaven's reward or punishment accordingly.

My first care, when I found myself in the streets of Palermo, was to purchase clothes of the best material and make adapted to a gentleman's wear. I explained to the tailor whose shop I entered for this purpose that I had joined a party of coral-fishers for mere amusement, and had for the time adopted their costume. He believed my story the more readily as I ordered him to make several more suits for me immediately, giving him the name of Count Cesare Oliva, and the address of the best hotel in the city. He served me with obsequious humility, and allowed me the use of his private back-room, where I discarded my fisher garb for the dress of a gentleman—a ready-made suit that happened to fit me passably well. Thus arrayed as became my station, I engaged rooms at the chief hotel of Palermo for some weeks—weeks that were for me full of careful preparation for the task of vengeful retribution that lay before me. One of my principal objects was to place the money I had with me in safe hands. I sought out the leading banker in Palermo, and introducing myself under my adopted name, I stated that I had newly returned to Sicily after some years' absence. He received me well, and though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth I had brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels, some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine admiration. Seeing this, I pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made of them for his own wear. Surprised at my generosity, he at first refused—but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks—while I was perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain. When this business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my next consideration—which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner. I had always worn a mustache—it had turned white in company with my hair. I now allowed my beard to grow—it came out white also. But in contrast with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old flashing, half-defiant look—a look, which it seemed to me, would make some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before I died. Yes—they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered; what should I do with these tell-tale eyes of mine?

I thought, and soon decided. Nothing was easier than to feign weak sight-sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern sunshine, I would wear smoke-colored glasses. I bought them as soon as the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror I tried their effect. I was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of my face. With them and my white hair and beard, I looked like a well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was a slight affection of the eyes.

The next thing to alter was my voice. I had, naturally, a peculiarly soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as it is the habit of almost every Italian, to accompany my words with the expressive pantomime of gesture. I took myself in training as an actor studies for a particular part. I cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke with deliberation and coldness—occasionally with a sort of sarcastic brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head during converse. This was exceedingly difficult of attainment to me, and took me an infinite deal of time and trouble; but I had for my model a middle-aged Englishman who was staying in the same hotel as myself, and whose starched stolidity never relaxed for a single instant. He was a human iceberg—perfectly respectable, with that air of decent gloom about him which is generally worn by all the sons of Britain while sojourning in a foreign clime. I copied his manners as closely as possible; I kept my mouth shut with the same precise air of not-to-be-enlightened obstinacy—I walked with the same upright drill demeanor—and I surveyed the scenery with the same superior contempt. I knew I had succeeded at last, for I overheard a waiter speaking of me to his companion as "the white bear!"

One other thing I did. I wrote a courteous note to the editor of the principal newspaper published in Naples—a newspaper that I knew always found its way to the Villa Romani—and inclosing fifty francs, I requested him to insert a paragraph for me in his next issue, This paragraph was worded somewhat as follows:

"The Signor Conte Cesare Oliva, a nobleman who has been for many years absent from his native country, has, we understand, just returned, possessed of almost fabulous wealth, and is about to arrive in Naples, where he purposes making his home for the future. The leaders of society here will no doubt welcome with enthusiasm so distinguished an addition to the brilliant circles commanded by their influence."

The editor obeyed my wishes, and inserted what I sent him, word for word as it was written. He sent me the paper containing it "with a million compliments," but was discreetly silent concerning the fifty francs, though I am certain he pocketed them with unaffected joy. Had I sent him double the money, he might have been induced to announce me as a king or emperor in disguise. Editors of newspapers lay claim to be honorable men; they may be so in England, but in Italy most of them would do anything for money. Poor devils! who can blame them, considering how little they get by their limited dealings in pen and ink! In fact, I am not at all certain but that a few English newspaper editors might be found capable of accepting a bribe, if large enough, and if offered with due delicacy. There are surely one or two magazines, for instance, in London, that would not altogether refuse to insert an indifferently, even badly written article, if paid a thousand pounds down for doing it!

On the last day but one of my sojourn in Palermo I was reclining in an easy-chair at the window of the hotel smoking-room, looking out on the shimmering waters of the gulf. It was nearly eight o'clock, and though the gorgeous colors of the sunset still lingered in the sky, the breeze blew in from the sea somewhat coldly, giving warning of an approaching chilly night. The character I had adopted, namely that of a somewhat harsh and cynical man who had seen life and did not like it, had by constant hourly practice become with me almost second nature—indeed, I should have had some difficulty in returning to the easy and thoughtless abandon of my former self. I had studied the art of being churlish till I really WAS churlish; I had to act the chief character in a drama, and I knew my part thoroughly well. I sat quietly puffing at my cigar and thinking of nothing in particular—for, as far as my plans went, I had done with thought, and all my energies were strung up to action—when I was startled by a loud and increasing clamor, as of the shouting of a large crowd coming onward like an overflowing tide. I leaned out of the window, but could see nothing, and I was wondering what the noise could mean, when an excited waiter threw open the door of the smoking-room and cried, breathlessly:

"Carmelo Neri, signor! Carmelo Neri! They have him, poverino! they have him at last!"

Though almost as strongly interested in this news as the waiter himself, I did not permit my interest to become manifest. I never forgot for a second the character I had assumed, and drawing the cigar slowly from my lips I merely said:

"Then they have caught a great rascal. I congratulate the Government! Where is the fellow?"

"In the great square," returned the garcon, eagerly. "If the signor would walk round the corner he would see Carmelo, bound and fettered. The saints have mercy upon him! The crowds there are thick as flies round a honeycomb! I must go thither myself—I would not miss the sight for a thousand francs!"

And he ran off, as full of the anticipated delight of looking at a brigand as a child going to its first fair. I put on my hat and strolled leisurely round to the scene of excitement. It was a picturesque sight enough; the square was black with a sea of eager heads, and restless, gesticulating figures, and the center of this swaying, muttering crowd was occupied by a compact band of mounted gendarmes with drawn swords flashing in the pale evening light—both horses and men nearly as motionless as though cast in bronze. They were stationed opposite the head-quarters of the Carabinieri, where the chief officer of the party had dismounted to make his formal report respecting the details of the capture before proceeding further. Between these armed and watchful guards, with his legs strapped to a sturdy mule, his arms tied fast behind him, and his hands heavily manacled, was the notorious Neri, as dark and fierce as a mountain thunder-storm. His head was uncovered—his thick hair, long and unkempt, hung in matted locks upon his shoulders—his heavy mustachios and beard were so black and bushy that they almost concealed his coarse and forbidding features—though I could see the tiger-like glitter of his sharp white teeth as he bit and gnawed his under lip in impotent fury and despair—and his eyes, like leaping flames, blazed with a wrathful ferocity from under his shaggy brows. He was a huge, heavy man, broad and muscular; his two hands clinched, tied and manacled behind him, looked like formidable hammers capable of striking a man down dead at one blow; his whole aspect was repulsive and terrible—there was no redeeming point about him—for even the apparent fortitude he assumed was mere bravado—meretricious courage—which the first week of the galleys would crush out of him as easily as one crushes the juice out of a ripe grape. He wore a nondescript costume of vari-colored linen, arranged in folds that would have been the admiration of an artist. It was gathered about him by means of a brilliant scarlet sash negligently tied. His brawny arms were bare to the shoulder—his vest was open, and displayed his strong brown throat and chest heaving with the pent-up anger and fear that raged within him. His dark grim figure was set off by a curious effect of color in the sky—a long wide band of crimson cloud, as though the sun-god had thrown down a goblet of ruby wine and left it to trickle along the smooth blue fairness of his palace floor—a deep after-glow, which burned redly on the olive-tinted eager faces of the multitude that were everywhere upturned in wonder and ill-judged admiration to the brutal black face of the notorious murderer and thief, whose name had for years been the terror of Sicily. I pressed through the crowd to obtain a nearer view, and as I did so a sudden savage movement of Neri's bound body caused the gendarmes to cross their swords in front of his eyes with a warning clash. The brigand laughed hoarsely.

"Corpo di Cristo!" he muttered—"think you a man tied hand and foot can run like a deer? I am trapped—I know it! But tell HIM," and he indicated some person in the throng by a nod of his head "tell him to come hither—I have a message for him."

The gendarmes looked at one another, and then at the swaying crowd about them in perplexity—they did not understand.

Carmelo, without wasting more words upon them, raised himself as uprightly as he could in his strained and bound position, and called aloud:

"Luigi Biscardi! Capitano! Oh he—you thought I could not see you! Dio! I should know you in hell! Come near, I have a parting word for you."

At the sound of his strong harsh voice, a silence half of terror, half of awe, fell upon the chattering multitude. There was a sudden stir as the people made way for a young man to pass through their ranks—a slight, tall, rather handsome fellow, with a pale face and cold, sneering eyes. He was dressed with fastidious care and neatness in the uniform of the Bersagliere—and he elbowed his way along with the easy audacity of a privileged dandy. He came close up to the brigand and spoke carelessly, with a slightly mocking smile playing round the corners of his mouth.

"Ebbene!" he said, "you are caught at last, Carmelo! You called me—here I am. What do you want with me, rascal?"

Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an instant like a wild beast ready to spring.

"You betrayed me," he said in fierce yet smothered accents—"you followed me—you hunted me down! Teresa told me all. Yes—she belongs to you now—you have got your wish. Go and take her—she waits for you—make her speak and tell you how she loves you—IF YOU CAN!"

Something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian's look, evidently startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily:

"What do you mean, wretch? You have not—my God! you have not KILLED her?"

Carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh.

"She has killed herself!" he cried, exultingly. "Ha, ha, I thought you would wince at that! She snatched my knife and stabbed herself with it! Yes—rather than see your lying white face again—rather than feel your accursed touch! Find her—she lies dead and smiling up there in the mountains and her last kiss was for ME—for ME—you understand! Now go! and may the devil curse you!"

Again the gendarmes clashed their swords suggestively—and the brigand resumed his sullen attitude of suppressed wrath and feigned indifference. But the man to whom he had spoken staggered and seemed about to fall—his pale face grew paler—he moved away through the curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows not whether he be alive or dead. He had evidently received an unexpected shock—a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time healing.

I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into his hand.

"May one speak?" I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated.

"For one instant, signor. But be brief."

I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone.

"Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of his."

He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features.

"Andrea is a good soul. Tell him if you will that Teresa is dead. I am worse than dead. He will know that I did not kill Teresa. I could not! She had the knife in her breast before I could prevent her. It is better so."

"She did that rather than become the property of another man?" I queried.

Carmelo Neri nodded in acquiescence. Either my sight deceived me, or else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his wicked eyes.

The gendarme made me a sign, and I withdrew. Almost at the same moment the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the pavement—he sprung into his saddle and gave the word—the crowd dispersed to the right and left—the horses were put to a quick trot, and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of the brigand in their midst had disappeared. The people broke up into little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered here and there, returning to their homes and occupations—and more swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was left almost empty. I paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; I had before my mind's eye the picture of the slight fair Teresa as described by the Sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the Montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had set her free of all men's love and persecution. There WERE some women then who preferred death to infidelity? Strange! very strange! common women of course they must be—such as this brigand's mistress; your daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar consoler—she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of lovers. It is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of dishonor—modern education instructs us more wisely, and teaches us not to be over-squeamish about such a trifle as breaking a given word or promise. Blessed age of progress! Age of steady advancement when the apple of vice is so cunningly disguised and so prettily painted that we can actually set it on a porcelain dish and hand it about among our friends as a valuable and choice fruit of virtue—and no one finds out the fraud we are practicing, nay, we scarcely perceive it ourselves, it is such an excellent counterfeit!

As I walked to and fro, I found myself continually passing the head office of the Carabinieri, and, acting on a sudden impulse of curiosity, I at last entered the building, determined to ask for a few particulars concerning the brigand's capture. I was received by a handsome and intelligent-looking man, who glanced at the card with which I presented myself, and saluted me with courteous affability.

"Oh, yes!" he said, in answer to my inquiries, "Neri has given us a great deal of trouble. But we had our suspicions that he had left Gaeta, where he was for a time in hiding. A few stray bits of information gleaned here and there put us on the right track."

"Was he caught easily, or did he show fight?"

"He gave himself up like a lamb, signor! It happened in this way. One of our men followed the woman who lived with Neri, one Teresa, and traced her up to a certain point, the corner of a narrow mountain pass—where she disappeared. He reported this, and thereupon we sent out an armed party. These crept at midnight two by two, till they were formed in a close ring round the place where Neri was judged to be. With the first beam of morning they rushed in upon him and took him prisoner. It appears that he showed no surprise—he merely said, 'I expected you!' He was found sitting by the dead body of his mistress; she was stabbed and newly bleeding. No doubt he killed her, though he swears the contrary—lies are as easy to him as breathing."

"But where were his comrades? I thought he commanded a large band?"

"So he did, signor; and we caught three of the principals only a fortnight ago, but of the others no trace can be found. I suppose Carmelo himself dismissed them and sent them far and wide through the country. At any rate, they are disbanded, and with these sort of fellows, where there is no union there is no danger."

"And Neri's sentence?" I asked.

"Oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible alternative."

I thanked my informant, and left the office. I was glad to have learned these few particulars, for the treasure I had discovered in my own family vault was now more mine than ever. There was not the remotest chance of any one of the Neri band venturing so close to Naples in search of it, and I thought with a grim smile that had the brigand chief himself known the story of my wrongs, he would most probably have rejoiced to think that his buried wealth was destined to aid me in carrying out so elaborate a plan of vengeance. All difficulties smoothed themselves before me—obstacles were taken out of my path—my way was made perfectly clear—each trifling incident was a new finger-post pointing out the direct road that led me to the one desired end. God himself seemed on my side, as He is surely ever on the side of justice! Let not the unfaithful think that because they say long prayers or go regularly and devoutly to church with meek faces and piously folded hands that the Eternal Wisdom is deceived thereby. My wife could pray—she could kneel like a lovely saint in the dim religious light of the sacred altars, her deep eyes upturned to the blameless, infinitely reproachful Christ—and look you! each word she uttered was a blasphemy, destined to come back upon herself as a curse. Prayer is dangerous for liars—it is like falling willfully on an upright naked sword. Used as an honorable weapon the sword defends—snatched up as the last resource of a coward it kills.



CHAPTER XI.

The third week of September was drawing to its close when I returned to Naples. The weather had grown cooler, and favorable reports of the gradual decrease of the cholera began to gain ground with the suffering and terrified population. Business was resumed as usual, pleasure had again her votaries, and society whirled round once more in its giddy waltz as though it had never left off dancing. I arrived in the city somewhat early in the day, and had time to make some preliminary arrangements for my plan of action. I secured the most splendid suite of apartments in the best hotel, impressing the whole establishment with a vast idea of my wealth and importance. I casually mentioned to the landlord that I desired to purchase a carriage and horses—that I needed a first-class valet, and a few other trifles of the like sort, and added that I relied on his good advice and recommendation as to the places where I should best obtain all that I sought. Needless to say, he became my slave—never was monarch better served than I—the very waiters hustled each other in a race to attend upon me, and reports of my princely fortune, generosity, and lavish expenditure, began to flit from mouth to month—which was the result I desired to obtain.

And now the evening of my first day in Naples came, and I, the supposed Conte Cesare Oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took the first step toward my vengeance. It was one of the loveliest evenings possible, even in that lovely land—a soft breeze blew in from the sea—the sky was pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright with delicate shifting clouds of crimson and pale mauve—small, fleecy flecks of Radiance, that looked like a shower of blossoms fallen from some far invisible flower-land. The waters of the bay were slightly ruffled by the wind, and curled into tender little dark-blue waves tipped with light forges of foam. After my dinner I went out and took my way to a well-known and popular cafe which used to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when I was known as Fabio Romani, Guido Ferrari was a constant habitue of the place, and I felt that I should find him there. The brilliant rose-white and gold saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant coolness of the air there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out into the street, at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, wine, or coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of the steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city. I glanced covertly yet quickly round. Yes! I was not mistaken—there was my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease, leaning comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another. He was smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the Paris "Figaro." He was dressed entirely in black—a hypocritical livery, the somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and perfectly handsome features to admiration. On the little finger of the shapely hand that every now and then was raised to adjust his cigar, sparkled a diamond that gave out a myriad scintillations as it flashed in the evening light—it was of exceptional size and brilliancy, and even at a distance I recognized it as my own property!

So!—a love-gift, signor, or an in memoriam of the dear and valued friend you have lost? I wondered—watching him in dark scorn the while—then recollecting myself, I sauntered slowly toward him, and perceiving a disengaged table next to his, I drew a chair to it and sat down He looked at me in differently over the top of his newspaper—but there was nothing specially attractive in the sight of a white-haired man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he resumed his perusal of the "Figaro" immediately. I rapped the end of my walking-cane on the table and summoned a waiter from whom I ordered coffee. I then lighted a cigar, and imitating Ferrari's easy posture, smoked also. Something in my attitude then appeared to strike him, for he laid down his paper and again looked at me, this time with more interest and something of uneasiness. "Ca commence, mon ami!" I thought, but I turned my head slightly aside and feigned to be absorbed in the view. My coffee was brought—I paid for it and tossed the waiter an unusually large gratuity—he naturally found it incumbent upon him to polish my table with extra zeal, and to secure all the newspapers, pictorial or otherwise, that were lying about, for the purpose of obsequiously depositing them in a heap at my right hand. I addressed this amiable garcon in the harsh and deliberate accents of my carefully disguised voice.

"By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?"

"Oh, si, signor!"

"Ebbene, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?"

Ha! a good hit this time! Though apparently not looking at him I saw Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in his seat with an air of attention. The waiter meanwhile, in answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy.

"Ah, gran Dio! e morto!"

"Dead!" I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. "So young? Impossible!"

"Eh! what will you, signor? It was la pesta; there was no remedy. La pesta cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor poor."

For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by the suddenness of the news. Then looking up, I said, regretfully:

"Alas! I am too late! I was a friend of his father's. I have been away for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani whom I last saw as a child. Are there any relations of his living—was he married?"

The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly:

"Oh, si, signor! The Contessa Romani lives up at the villa, though I believe she receives no one since her husband's death. She is young and beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too."

A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and raising his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely:

"Pardon me, signor, for interrupting you! I knew the late young Count Romani well—perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him."

Oh, the old mellow music of his voice—how it struck on my heart and pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our youth. For an instant I could not speak—wrath and sorrow choked my utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary—slowly I raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly:

"I am your servant, signor. You will oblige me indeed if you can place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother—men have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to introduce myself," and I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. He accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise.

"The Conte Cesare Oliva!" he exclaimed. "I esteem myself most fortunate to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well aware," here laughing lightly, "of the distinctive right you have to a hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an absence. Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!"

And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God! could I take his hand in mine? I must—if I would act my part thoroughly—for should I refuse he would think it strange—even rude—I should lose the game by one false move. With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also—it was gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the glove like fire. I could have cried out in agony, so excruciating was the mental torture which I endured at that moment. But it passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as with any other man. It was only this FIRST time that it galled me to the quick. Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion—he was in excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make each other's acquaintance, he exclaimed:

"More coffee, garcon, and a couple of glorias." Then looking toward me, "You do not object to a gloria, conte? No? That is well. And here is MY card," taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table. "Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor one. We shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other's health!"

I bowed. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew his chair closer to mine.

"I see you smoke," he said, gayly. "Can I offer you one of my cigars? They are unusually choice. Permit me," and he proffered roe a richly embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the Romani arms and coronet and MY OWN INITIALS engraved thereon. It was mine, of course—I took it with a sensation of grim amusement—I had not seen it since the day I died!

"A fine antique," I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over in my hand, "curious and valuable. A gift or an heirloom?"

"It belonged to my late friend, Count Fabio," he answered, puffing a light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips to speak. "It was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die. That and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to his wife, and—"

"She naturally gave YOU the cigar-case as a memento of your friend," I said, interrupting him.

"Just so. You have guessed it exactly. Thanks," and he took the case from me as I returned it to him with a frank smile.

"Is the Countess Romani young?" I forced myself to inquire.

"Young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!" replied Ferrari, with enthusiasm. "I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting woman! If you were a young man, conte, I should be silent regarding her charms—but your white hairs inspire one with confidence. I assure you solemnly, though Fabio was my friend, and an excellent fellow in his ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!"

"Indeed!" I said, coldly, as this dagger-thrust struck home to my heart. "I only knew him when he was quite a boy. He seemed to me then of a warm and loving temperament, generous to a fault, perhaps over-credulous, yet he promised well. His father thought so, I confess I thought so too. Reports have reached me from time to time of the care with which he managed the immense fortune left to him. He gave large sums away in charity, did he not? and was he not a lover of books and simple pleasures?"

"Oh, I grant you all that!" returned Ferrari, with some impatience. "He was the most moral man in immoral Naples, if you care for that sort of thing. Studious—philosophic—parfait gentilhomme—proud as the devil, virtuous, unsuspecting, and—withal—a fool!"

My temper rose dangerously—but I controlled it, and remembering my part in the drama I had constructed, I broke into violent, harsh laughter.

"Bravo!" I exclaimed. "One can easily see what a first-rate young fellow YOU are! You have no liking for moral men—ha, ha! excellent! I agree with you. A virtuous man and a fool are synonyms nowadays. Yes—I have lived long enough to know that! And here is our coffee—behold also the glorias! I drink your health with pleasure, Signor Ferrari—you and I must be friends!"

For one moment he seemed startled by my sudden outburst of mirth—the next, he laughed heartily himself, and as the waiter appeared with the coffee and cognac, inspired by the occasion, he made an equivocal, slightly indelicate joke concerning the personal charms of a certain Antoinetta whom the garcon was supposed to favor with an eye to matrimony. The fellow grinned, in nowise offended—and pocketing fresh gratuities from both Ferrari and myself, departed on new errands for other customers, apparently in high good humor with himself, Antoinetta, and the world in general. Resuming the interrupted conversation I said:

"And this poor weak-minded Romani—was his death sudden?"

"Remarkably so," answered Ferrari, leaning back in his chair, and turning his handsome flushed face up to the sky where the stars were beginning to twinkle out one by ones "it appears from all accounts that he rose early and went out for a walk on one of those insufferably hot August mornings, and at the furthest limit of the villa grounds he came upon a fruit-seller dying of cholera. Of course, with his quixotic ideas, he must needs stay and talk to the boy, and then run like a madman through the heat into Naples, to find a doctor for him. Instead of a physician he met a priest, and he was taking this priest to the assistance of the fruit-seller (who by the bye died in the meantime and was past all caring for) when he himself was struck down by the plague. He was carried then and there to a common inn, where in about five hours he died—all the time shrieking curses on any one who should dare to take him alive or dead inside his own house. He showed good sense in that at least—naturally he was anxious not to bring the contagion to his wife and child."

"Is the child a boy or a girl?" I asked, carelessly.

"A girl. A mere baby—an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, very like her father."

My poor little Stella.

Every pulse of my being thrilled with indignation at the indifferently chill way in which he, the man who had fondled her and pretended to love her, now spoke of the child. She was, as far as he knew, fatherless; he, no doubt, had good reason to suspect that her mother cared little for her, and, I saw plainly that she was, or soon would be, a slighted and friendless thing in the household. But I made no remark—I sipped my cognac with an abstracted air for a few seconds—then I asked:

"How was the count buried? Your narrative interests me greatly."

"Oh, the priest who was with him saw to his burial, and I believe, was able to administer the last sacraments. At any rate, he had him laid with all proper respect in his family vault—I myself was present at the funeral."

I started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself.

"YOU were present—YOU—YOU—" and my voice almost failed me.

Ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry.

"Of course! You are astonished at that? But perhaps you do not understand. I was the count's very closest friend, closer than a brother, I may say. It was natural, even necessary, that I should attend his body to its last resting place."

By this time I had recovered myself.

"I see—I see!" I muttered, hastily. "Pray excuse me—my age renders me nervous of disease in any form, and I should have thought the fear of contagion might have weighed with you."

"With ME!" and he laughed lightly. "I was never ill in my life, and I have no dread whatever of cholera. I suppose I ran some risk, though I never thought about it at the time—but the priest—one of the Benedictine order—died the very next day."

"Shocking!" I murmured over my coffee-cup. "Very shocking. And you actually entertained no alarm for yourself?"

"None in the least. To tell you the truth, I am armed against contagious illnesses, by a conviction I have that I am not doomed to die of any disease. A prophecy"—and here a cloud crossed his features—"an odd prophecy was made about me when I was born, which, whether it comes true or not, prevents me from panic in days of plague."

"Indeed!" I said, with interest, for this was news to me. "And may one ask what this prophecy is?"

"Oh, certainly. It is to the effect that I shall die a violent death by the hand of a once familiar friend. It was always an absurd statement—an old nurse's tale—but it is now more absurd than ever, considering that the only friend of the kind I ever had or am likely to have is dead and buried—namely, Fabio Romani."

And he sighed slightly. I raised my head and looked at him steadily.



CHAPTER XII.

The sheltering darkness of the spectacles I wore prevented him from noticing the searching scrutiny of my fixed gaze. His face was shadowed by a faint tinge of melancholy; his eyes were thoughtful and almost sad.

"You loved him well then in spite of his foolishness?" I said.

He roused himself from the pensive mood into which he had fallen, and smiled.

"Loved him? No! Certainly not—nothing so strong as that! I liked him fairly—he bought several pictures of me—a poor artist has always some sort of regard for the man who buys his work. Yes, I liked him well enough—till he married."

"Ha! I suppose his wife came between you?" He flushed slightly, and drank off the remainder of his cognac in haste.

"Yes," he replied, briefly, "she came between us. A man is never quite the same after marriage. But we have been sitting a long time here—shall we walk?"

He was evidently anxious to change the subject I rose slowly as though my joints were stiff with age, and drew out my watch, a finely jeweled one, to see the time. It was past nine o'clock.

"Perhaps," I said, addressing him, "you will accompany me as far as my hotel. I am compelled to retire early as a rule—I suffer much from a chronic complaint of the eyes as you perceive," here touching my spectacles, "and I cannot endure much artificial light. We can talk further on our way. Will you give me a chance of seeing your pictures? I shall esteem myself happy to be one of your patrons."

"A thousand thanks!" he answered, gayly. "I will show you my poor attempts with pleasure. Should you find anything among them to gratify your taste, I shall of course be honored. But, thank Heaven! I am not as greedy of patronage as I used to be—in fact I intended resigning the profession altogether in about six months or so."

"Indeed! Are you coming into a fortune?" I asked, carelessly.

"Well—not exactly," he answered, lightly. "I am going to marry one—that is almost the same thing, is it not?"

"Precisely! I congratulate you!" I said, in a studiously indifferent and slightly bored tone, though my heart pulsed fiercely with the torrent of wrath pent up within it. I understood his meaning well. In six months he proposed marrying my wife. Six months was the shortest possible interval that could be observed, according to social etiquette, between the death of one husband and the wedding of another, and even that was so short as to be barely decent. Six months—yet in that space of time much might happen—things undreamed of and undesired—slow tortures carefully measured out, punishment sudden and heavy! Wrapped in these sombre musings I walked beside him in profound silence. The moon shone brilliantly; groups of girls danced on the shore with their lovers, to the sound of a flute and mandoline—far off across the bay the sound of sweet and plaintive singing floated from some boat in the distance, to our ears—the evening breathed of beauty, peace and love. But I—my fingers quivered with restrained longing to be at the throat of the graceful liar who sauntered so easily and confidently beside me. Ah! Heaven, if he only knew! If he could have realized the truth, would his face have worn quite so careless a smile—would his manner have been quite so free and dauntless? Stealthily I glanced at him; he was humming a tune softly under his breath, but feeling instinctively, I suppose, that my eyes were upon him, he interrupted the melody and turned to me with the question:

"You have traveled far and seen much, conte!"

"I have."

"And in what country have you found the most beautiful women!"

"Pardon me, young sir," I answered, coldly, "the business of life has separated me almost entirely from feminine society. I have devoted myself exclusively to the amassing of wealth, understanding thoroughly that gold is the key to all things, even to woman's love; if I desired that latter commodity, which I do not. I fear that I scarcely know a fair face from a plain one—I never was attracted by women, and now at my age, with my settled habits, I am not likely to alter my opinion concerning them—and I frankly confess those opinions are the reverse of favorable."

Ferrari laughed. "You remind me of Fabio!" he said. "He used to talk in that strain before he was married—though he was young and had none of the experiences which may have made you cynical, conte! But he altered his ideas very rapidly—and no wonder!"

"Is his wife so very lovely then?" I asked.

"Very! Delicately, daintily beautiful. But no doubt you will see her for yourself—as a friend of her late husband's father, you will call upon her, will you not?"

"Why should I?" I said, gruffly—"I have no wish to meet her! Besides, an inconsolable widow seldom cares to receive visitors—I shall not intrude upon her sorrows!"

Never was there a better move than this show of utter indifference I affected. The less I appeared to care about seeing the Countess Romani, the more anxious Ferrari was to introduce me—(introduce me!—to my wife!)—and he set to work preparing his own doom with assiduous ardor.

"Oh, but you must see her!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "She will receive you, I am sure, as a special guest. Your age and your former acquaintance with her late husband's family will win from her the utmost courtesy, believe me! Besides, she is not really inconsolable—" He paused suddenly. We had arrived at the entrance of my hotel. I looked at him steadily.

"Not really inconsolable?" I repeated, in a tone of inquiry ferrari broke into a forced laugh,

"Why no!" he said, "What would you? She is young and light-hearted—perfectly lovely and in the fullness of youth and health. One cannot expect her to weep long, especially for a man she did not care for."

I ascended the hotel steps. "Pray come in!" I said, with an inviting movement of my hand. "You must take a glass of wine before you leave. And so—she did not care for him, you say?"

Encouraged by my friendly invitation and manner, Ferrari became more at this ease than ever, and hooking his arm through mine as we crossed the broad passage of the hotel together, he replied in a confidential tone:

"My dear conte, how CAN a woman love a man who is forced upon her by her father for the sake of the money he gives her? As I told you before, my late friend was utterly insensible to the beauty of his wife—he was cold as a stone, and preferred his books. Then naturally she had no love for him!"

By this time we had reached my apartments, and as I threw open the door, I saw that Ferrari was taking in with a critical eye the costly fittings and luxurious furniture. In answer to this last remark, I said with a chilly smile:

"And as I told YOU before, my dear Signor Ferarri, I know nothing whatever about women, and care less than nothing for their loves or hatreds! I have always thought of them more or less as playful kittens, who purr when they are stroked the right way, and scream and scratch when their tails are trodden on. Try this Montepulciano!"

He accepted the glass I proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air of a connoisseur.

"Exquisite!" he murmured, sipping it lazily. "You are lodged en prince here, conte! I envy you!"

"You need not," I answered. "You have youth and health, and—as you have hinted to me—love; all these things are better than wealth, so people say. At any rate, youth and health are good things—love I have no belief in. As for me, I am a mere luxurious animal, loving comfort and ease beyond anything. I have had many trials—I now take my rest in my own fashion."

"A very excellent and sensible fashion!" smiled Ferrari, leaning his head easily back on the satin cushions of the easy-chair into which he had thrown himself.

"Do you know, conte, now I look at you well, I think you must have been very handsome when you were young! You have a superb figure.'"

I bowed stiffly. "You flatter me, signor! I believe I never was specially hideous—but looks in a man always rank second to strength, and of strength I have plenty yet remaining."

"I do not doubt it," he returned, still regarding me attentively with an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness.

"It is an odd coincidence, you will say, but I find a most extraordinary resemblance in the height and carriage of your figure to that of my late friend Romani."

I poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it.

"Really?" I answered. "I am glad that I remind you of him—if the reminder is agreeable! But all tall men are much alike so far as figure goes, providing they are well made."

Ferrari's brow was contracted in a musing frown and he answered not. He still looked at me, and I returned his look without embarrassment. Finally he roused himself, smiled, and finished drinking his glass of Montepulciano. Then he rose to go.

"You will permit me to mention your name to the Countess Romani, I hope?" he said, cordially. "I am certain she will receive you, should you desire it."

I feigned a sort of vexation, and made an abrupt movement of impatience.

"The fact is," I said, at last, "I very much dislike talking to women. They are always illogical, and their frivolity wearies me. But you have been so friendly that I will give you a message for the countess—if you have no objection to deliver it. I should be sorry to trouble you unnecessarily—and you perhaps will not have an opportunity of seeing her for some days?"

He colored slightly and moved uneasily. Then with a kind of effort, he replied:

"On the contrary, I am going to see her this very evening. I assure you it will be a pleasure to me to convey to her any greeting you may desire to send."

"Oh, it is no greeting," I continued, calmly, noting the various signs of embarrassment in his manner with a careful eye. "It is a mere message, which, however, may enable you to understand why I was anxious to see the young man who is dead. In my very early manhood the elder Count Romani did me an inestimable service. I never forgot his kindness—my memory is extraordinarily tenacious of both benefits and injuries—and I have always desired to repay it in some suitable manner. I have with me a few jewels of almost priceless value—I have myself collected them, and I reserved them as a present to the son of my old friend, simply as a trifling souvenir or expression of gratitude for past favors received from his family. His sudden death has deprived me of the pleasure of fulfilling this intention—but as the jewels are quite useless to me, I am perfectly willing to hand them over to the Countess Romani, should she care to have them. They would have been hers had her husband lived—they should be hers now. If you, signor, will report these facts to her and learn her wishes with respect to the matter, I shall be much indebted to you."

"I shall be delighted to obey you," replied Ferrari, courteously, rising at the same time to take his leave. "I am proud to be the bearer of so pleasing an errand. Beautiful women love jewels, and who shall blame them? Bright eyes and diamonds go well together! A rivederci, Signer Conte! I trust we shall meet often."

"I have no doubt we shall," I answered, quietly.

He shook hands cordially—I responded to his farewell salutations with the brief coldness which was now my habitual manner, and we parted. From the window of my saloon I could see him sauntering easily down the hotel steps and from thence along the street. How I cursed him as he stepped jauntily on—how I hated his debonair grace and easy manner! I watched the even poise of his handsome head and shoulders, I noted the assured tread, the air of conscious vanity—the whole demeanor of the man bespoke his perfect self-satisfaction and his absolute confidence in the brightness of the future that awaited him when that stipulated six months of pretended mourning for my untimely death should have expired. Once, as he walked on his way, he turned and paused—looking back—he raised his hat to enjoy the coolness of the breeze on his forehead and hair. The light of the moon fell full on his features and showed them in profile, like a finely-cut cameo against the dense dark-blue background of the evening sky. I gazed at him with a sort of grim fascination—the fascination of a hunter for the stag when it stands at bay, just before he draws his knife across its throat. He was in my power—he had deliberately thrown himself in the trap I had set for him. He lay at the mercy of one in whom there was no mercy. He had said and done nothing to deter me from my settled plans. Had he shown the least tenderness of recollection for me as Fabio Romani, his friend and benefactor—had he hallowed my memory by one generous word—had he expressed one regret for my loss—I might have hesitated, I might have somewhat changed my course of action so that punishment should have fallen more lightly on him than on her. For I knew well enough that she, my wife, was the worst sinner of the two. Had SHE chosen to respect herself, not all the forbidden love in the world could have touched her honor. Therefore, the least sign of compunction or affection from Ferrari for me, his supposed dead friend, would have turned the scale in his favor, and in spite of his treachery, remembering how SHE must have encouraged him, I would at least have spared him torture. But no sign had been given, no word had been spoken, there was no need for hesitation or pity, and I was glad of it! All this I thought as I watched him standing bareheaded in the moonlight, on his way to—whom? To my wife, of course. I knew that well enough. He was going to console her widow's tears—to soothe her aching heart—a good Samaritan in very earnest! He moved, he passed slowly out of my sight. I waited till I had seen the last glimpse of his retreating figure, and then I left the window satisfied with my day's work. Vengeance had begun.



CHAPTER XIII.

Quite early in the next day Ferrari called to see me. I was at breakfast—he apologized for disturbing me at the meal.

"But," he explained, frankly, "the Countess Romani laid such urgent commands upon me that I was compelled to obey. We men are the slaves of women!"

"Not always," I said, dryly, as I motioned him to take a seat—"there are exceptions—myself for instance. Will you have some coffee?"

"Thanks, I have already breakfasted. Pray do not let me be in your way, my errand is soon done. The countess wishes me to say—"

"You saw her last night?" I interrupted him.

He flushed slightly. "Yes—that is—for a few minutes only. I gave her your message. She thanks you, and desires me to tell you that she cannot think of receiving the jewels unless you will first honor her by a visit. She is not at home to ordinary callers in consequence of her recent bereavement—but to you, so old a friend of her husband's family, a hearty welcome will be accorded."

I bowed stiffly. "I am extremely flattered!" I said, in a somewhat sarcastical tone, "it is seldom I receive so tempting an invitation! I regret that I cannot accept it—at least, not at present. Make my compliments to the lady, and tell her so in whatever sugared form of words you may think best fitted to please her ears."

He looked surprised and puzzled.

"Do you really mean," he said, with a tinge of hauteur in his accents, "that you will not visit her—that you refuse her request?"

I smiled. "I really mean, my dear Signor Ferrari, that, being always accustomed to have my own way, I can make no exception in favor of ladies, however fascinating they may be. I have business in Naples—it claims my first and best attention. When it is transacted I may possibly try a few frivolities for a change—at present I am unfit for the society of the fair sex—an old battered traveler as you see, brusque, and unaccustomed to polite lying. But I promise you I will practice suave manners and a court bow for the countess when I can spare time to call upon her. In the meanwhile I trust to you to make her a suitable and graceful apology for my non-appearance."

Ferrari's puzzled and vexed expression gave way to a smile—finally he laughed aloud. "Upon my word!" he exclaimed, gayly, "you are really a remarkable man, conte! You are extremely cynical! I am almost inclined to believe that you positively hate women."

"Oh, by no means! Nothing so strong as hatred," I said, coolly, as I peeled and divided a fine peach as a finish to my morning's meal. "Hatred is a strong passion—to hate well one must first have loved. No, no—I do not find women worth hating—I am simply indifferent to them. They seem to me merely one of the burdens imposed on man's existence—graceful, neatly packed, light burdens in appearance, but in truth, terribly heavy and soul-crushing."

"Yet many accept such burdens gayly!" interrupted Ferrari, with a smile. I glanced at him keenly.

"Men seldom attain the mastery over their own passions," I replied; "they are in haste to seize every apparent pleasure that comes in their way, Led by a hot animal impulse which they call love, they snatch at a woman's beauty as a greedy school-boy snatches ripe fruit—and when possessed, what is it worth? Here is its emblem"—and I held up the stone of the peach I had just eaten—"the fruit is devoured—what remains? A stone with a bitter kernel."

Ferrari shrugged his shoulders.

"I cannot agree with you, count," he said; "but I will not argue with you. From your point of view you may be right—but when one is young, and life stretches before you like a fair pleasure-ground, love and the smile of woman are like sunlight falling on flowers! You too must have felt this—in spite of what you say, there must have been a time in your life when you also loved!"

"Oh, I have had my fancies, of course!" I answered, with an indifferent laugh. "The woman I fancied turned out to be a saint—I was not worthy of her—at least, so I was told. At any rate, I was so convinced of her virtue and my own unworthiness—that—I left her."

He looked surprised. "An odd reason, surely, for resigning her, was it not?"

"Very odd—very unusual—but a sufficient one for me. Pray let us talk of something more interesting—your pictures, for instance. When may I see them?"

"When you please," he answered, readily—"though I fear they are scarcely worth a visit. I have not worked much lately. I really doubt whether I have any that will merit your notice."

"You underrate your powers, signor," I said with formal politeness. "Allow me to call at your studio this afternoon. I have a few minutes to spare between three and four o'clock, if that time will suit you."

"It will suit me admirably," he said, with a look of gratification; "but I fear you will be disappointed. I assure you I am no artist."

I smiled. I knew that well enough. But I made no reply to his remark—I said, "Regarding the matter of the jewels for the Countess Romani—would you care to see them?"

"I should indeed," he answered; "they are unique specimens, I think?"

"I believe so," I answered, and going to an escritoire in the corner of the room, I unlocked it and took out a massive carved oaken jewel-chest of square shape, which I had had made in Palermo. It contained a necklace of large rubies and diamonds, with bracelets to match, and pins of their hair—also a sapphire ring—a cross of fine rose-brilliants, and the pearl pendant I had first found in the vault. All the gems, with the exception of this pendant, had been reset by a skillful jeweler in Palermo, who had acted under my superintendence—and Ferrari uttered an exclamation of astonishment and admiration as he lifted the glittering toys out one by one and noted the size and brilliancy of the precious stones.

"They are trifles," I said, carelessly—"but they may please a woman's taste—and they amount to a certain fixed value. You would do me a great service if you consented to take them to the Contessa Romani for me—tell her to accept them as heralds of my forthcoming visit. I am sure you will know how to persuade her to take what would unquestionably have been hers had her husband lived. They are really her property—she must not refuse to receive what is her own."

Ferrari hesitated and looked at me earnestly.

"You—WILL visit her—she may rely on your coming for a certainty, I hope?"

I smiled. "You seem very anxious about it. May I ask why?"

"I think," he replied at once, "that it would embarrass the countess very much if you gave her no opportunity to thank you for so munificent and splendid a gift—and unless she knew she could do so, I am certain she would not accept it."

"Make yourself quite easy," I answered. "She shall thank me to her heart's content. I give you my word that within a few days I will call upon the lady—in fact you said you would introduce me—I accept your offer!"

He seemed delighted, and seizing my hand, shook it cordially.

"Then in that case I will gladly take the jewels to her," he exclaimed. "And I may say, count, that had you searched the whole world over, you could not have found one whose beauty was more fitted to show them off to advantage. I assure you her loveliness is of a most exquisite character!"

"No doubt!" I said, dryly. "I take your word for it. I am no judge of a fair face or form. And now, my good friend, do not think me churlish if I request you leave me in solitude for the present. Between three and four o'clock I shall be at your studio."

He rose at once to take his leave. I placed the oaken box of jewels in the leathern case which had been made to contain it, strapped and locked it, and handed it to him together with its key. He was profuse in his compliments and thanks—almost obsequious, in truth—and I discovered another defect in his character—a defect which, as his friend in former days, I had guessed nothing of. I saw that very little encouragement would make him a toady—a fawning servitor on the wealthy—and in our old time of friendship I had believed him to be far above all such meanness, but rather of a manly, independent nature that scorned hypocrisy. Thus we are deluded even by our nearest and dearest—and is it well or ill for us, I wonder, when we are at last undeceived? Is not the destruction of illusion worse than illusion itself? I thought so, as my quondam friend clasped my hand in farewell that morning. What would I not have given to believe in him as I once did! I held open the door of my room as he passed out, carrying the box of jewels for my wife, and as I bade him a brief adieu, the well-worn story of Tristram and Kind Mark came to my mind. He, Guido, like Tristram, would in a short space clasp the gemmed necklace round the throat of one as fair and false as the fabled Iseulte, and I—should I figure as the wronged king? How does the English laureate put it in his idyl on the subject?

"'Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove him through the brain."

Too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor! The Cornish king should have known how to torture his betrayer! I knew—and I meditated deeply on every point of my design, as I sat alone for an hour after Ferrari had left me. I had many things to do—I had resolved on making myself a personage of importance in Naples, and I wrote several letters and sent out visiting-cards to certain well-established families of distinction as necessary preliminaries to the result I had in view. That day, too, I engaged a valet—a silent and discreet Tuscan named Vincenzo Flamma. He was an admirably trained servant—he never asked questions—was too dignified to gossip, and rendered me instant and implicit obedience—in fact he was a gentleman in his way, with far better manners than many who lay claim to that title. He entered upon his duties at once, and never did I know him to neglect the most trifling thing that could add to my satisfaction or comfort. In making arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the time appointed, I made my way to Ferrari's studio. I knew it of old—I had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the address was written. It was a queer, quaintly built little place, situated at the top of an ascending road—its windows commanded an extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery. Many and many a happy hour had I passed there before my marriage reading some favorite book or watching Ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and figures, most of which I good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed. The little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening pang of regret for the past, as I pulled the bell and heard the little tinkling sound to which I was so well accustomed. Ferrari himself opened the door to me with eager rapidity—he looked excited and radiant.

"Come in, come in!" he cried with effusive cordiality. "You will find everything in confusion, but pray excuse it. It is some time since I had any visitors. Mind the steps, conte!—the place is rather dark just here—every one stumbles at this particular corner."

So talking, and laughing as he talked, he escorted me up the short narrow flight of stairs to the light airy room where he usually worked. Glancing round it, I saw at once the evidences of neglect and disorder—he had certainly not been there for many days, though he had made an attempt to arrange it tastefully for my reception. On the table stood a large vase of flowers grouped with artistic elegance—I felt instinctively that my wife had put them there. I noticed that Ferrari had begun nothing new—all the finished and unfinished studies I saw I recognized directly. I seated myself in an easy-chair and looked at my betrayer with a calmly critical eye. He was what the English would call "got up for effect." Though in black, he had donned a velvet coat instead of the cloth one he had worn in the morning—he had a single white japonica in his buttonhole—his face was pale and his eyes unusually brilliant. He looked his best—I admitted it, and could readily understand how an idle, pleasure-seeking feminine animal might be easily attracted by the purely physical beauty of his form and features. I spoke a part of my thoughts aloud.

"You are not only an artist by profession, Signer Ferrari—you are one also in appearance."

He flushed slightly and smiled.

"You are very amiable to say so," he replied, his pleased vanity displaying itself at once in the expression of his face. "But I am well aware that you flatter me. By the way, before I forget it, I must tell you that I fulfilled your commission."

"To the Countess Romani?"

"Exactly. I cannot describe to you her astonishment and delight at the splendor and brilliancy of those jewels you sent her. It was really pretty to watch her innocent satisfaction."

I laughed.

"Marguerite and the jewel song in 'Faust,' I suppose, with new scenery and effects?" I asked, with a slight sneer. He bit his lip and looked annoyed. But he answered, quietly:

"I see you must have your joke, conte; but remember that if you place the countess in the position of Marguerite, you, as the giver of the jewels, naturally play the part of Mephistopheles."

"And you will be Faust, of course!" I said, gayly. "Why, we might mount the opera with a few supernumeraries and astonish Naples by our performance! What say you? But let us come to business. I like the picture you have on the easel there—may I see it more closely?"

He drew it nearer; it was a showy landscape with the light of the sunset upon it. It was badly done, but I praised it warmly, and purchased it for five hundred francs. Four other sketches of a similar nature were then produced. I bought these also. By the time we got through these matters, Ferrari was in the best of humors. He offered me some excellent wine and partook of it himself; he talked incessantly, and diverted me extremely, though my inward amusement was not caused by the witty brilliancy of his conversation. No, I was only excited to a sense of savage humor by the novelty of the position in which we two men stood. Therefore I listened to him attentively, applauded his anecdotes—all of which I had heard before—admired his jokes, and fooled his egotistical soul till he had no shred of self-respect remaining. He laid his nature bare before me—and I knew what it was at last—a mixture of selfishness, avarice, sensuality, and heartlessness, tempered now and then by a flash of good-nature and sympathetic attraction which were the mere outcomes of youth and physical health—no more. This was the man I had loved—this fellow who told coarse stories only worthy of a common pot-house, and who reveled in a wit of a high and questionable flavor; this conceited, empty-headed, muscular piece of humanity was the same being for whom I had cherished so chivalrous and loyal a tenderness! Our conversation was broken in upon at last by the sound of approaching wheels. A carriage was heard ascending the road—it came nearer—it stopped at the door. I set down the glass of wine I had just raised to my lips, and looked at Ferrari steadily.

"You expect other visitors?" I inquired.

He seemed embarrassed, smiled, and hesitated.

"Well—I am not sure—but—" The bell rang. With a word of apology Ferrari hurried away to answer it. I sprung from my chair—I knew—I felt who was coming. I steadied my nerves by a strong effort. I controlled the rapid beating of my heart; and fixing my dark glasses more closely over my eyes, I drew myself up erect and waited calmly. I heard Ferrari ascending the stairs—a light step accompanied his heavier footfall—he spoke to his companion in whispers. Another instant—and he flung the door of the studio wide open with the haste and reverence due for the entrance of a queen. There was a soft rustle of silk—a delicate breath of perfume on the air—and then—I stood face to face with my wife!



CHAPTER XIV.

How dazzlingly lovely she was! I gazed at her with the same bewildered fascination that had stupefied my reason and judgment when I beheld her for the first time. The black robes she wore, the long crape veil thrown back from her clustering hair and mignonne face, all the somber shadows of her mourning garb only served to heighten and display her beauty to greater advantage. A fair widow truly! I, her lately deceased husband, freely admitted the magnetic power of her charms! She paused for an instant on the threshold, a winning smile on her lips; she looked at me, hesitated, and finally spoke in courteous accents:

"I think I cannot be mistaken! Do I address the noble Conte Cesare Oliva?"

I tried to speak, but could not. My mouth was dry and parched with excitement, my throat swelled and ached with the pent-up wrath and despair of my emotions. I answered her question silently by a formal bow. She at once advanced, extending both her hands with the coaxing grace of manner I had so often admired.

"I am the Countess Romani," she said, still smiling. "I heard from Signor Ferrari that you purposed visiting his studio this afternoon, and I could not resist the temptation of coming to express my personal acknowledgments for the almost regal gift you sent me. The jewels are really magnificent. Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks!"

I caught her outstretched hands and wrung them hard—so hard that the rings she wore must have dug into her flesh and hurt her, though she was too well-bred to utter any exclamation. I had fully recovered myself, and was prepared to act out my part.

"On the contrary, madame," I said in a strong harsh voice, "the thanks must come entirely from me for the honor you have conferred upon me by accepting trifles so insignificant—especially at a time when the cold brilliancy of mere diamonds must jar upon the sensitive feelings of your recent widowhood. Believe me, I sympathize deeply with your bereavement. Had your husband lived, the jewels would have been his gift to you, and how much more acceptable they would then have appeared in your eyes! I am proud to think you have condescended so far as to receive them from so unworthy a hand as mine."

As I spoke her face paled—she seemed startled, and regarded me earnestly. Sheltered behind my smoked spectacles, I met the gaze of her large dark eyes without embarrassment. Slowly she withdrew her slight fingers from my clasp. I placed an easy chair for her, she sunk softly into it with her old air of indolent ease, the ease of a spoiled empress or sultan's favorite, while she still continued to look up at me thoughtfully Ferrari, meanwhile, busied himself in bringing out more wine, he also produced a dish of fruit and some sweet cakes, and while occupied in these duties as our host he began to laugh.

"Ha, ha! you are caught!" he exclaimed to me gayly. "You must know we planned this together, madame and I, just to take you by surprise. There was no knowing when you would be persuaded to visit the contessa, and she could not rest till she had thanked you, so we arranged this meeting. Could anything be better? Come, conte, confess that you are charmed!"

"Of course I am!" I answered with a slight touch of satire in my tone. "Who would not be charmed in the presence of such youth and beauty! And I am also flattered—for I know what exceptional favor the Contessa Romani extends toward me in allowing me to make her acquaintance at a time which must naturally be for her a secluded season of sorrow."

At these words my wife's face suddenly assumed an expression of wistful sadness and appealing gentleness.

"Ah, poor unfortunate Fabio," she sighed. "How terrible it seems that he is not here to greet you! How gladly he would have welcomed any friend of his father's—he adored his father, poor fellow! I cannot realize that he is dead. It was too sudden, too dreadful! I do not think I shall ever recover the shock of his loss!"

And her eyes actually filled with tears; though the fact did not surprise me in the least, for many women can weep at will. Very little practice is necessary—and we men are such fools, we never know how it is done; we take all the pretty feigned piteousness for real grief, and torture ourselves to find methods of consolation for the feminine sorrows which have no root save in vanity and selfishness. I glanced quickly from my wife to Ferrari: he coughed, and appeared embarrassed—he was not so good an actor as she was an actress. Studying them both, I know not which feeling gained the mastery in my mind—contempt or disgust.

"Console yourself, madame," I said, coldly. "Time should be quick to heal the wounds of one so young and beautiful as you are! Personally speaking, I much regret your husband's death, but I would entreat YOU not to give way to grief, which, however sincere, must unhappily be useless. Your life lies before you—and may happy days and as fair a future await you as you deserve!"

She smiled, her tear-drops vanished like morning dew disappearing in the heat.

"I thank you for your good wishes, conte," she said "but it rests with you to commence my happy days by honoring me with a visit. You will come, will you not? My house and all that it contains are at your service!"

I hesitated. Ferrari looked amused.

"Madame is not aware of your dislike to the society of ladies, conte," he said, and there was a touch of mockery in his tone. I glanced at him coldly, and addressed my answer to my wife.

"Signor Ferrari is perfectly right," I said, bending over her, and speaking in a low tone; "I am often ungallant enough to avoid the society of mere women, but, alas! I have no armor of defense against the smile of an angel."

And I bowed with a deep and courtly reverence. Her face brightened—she adored her own loveliness, and the desire of conquest awoke in her immediately. She took a glass of wine from my hand with a languid grace, and fixed her glorious eyes full on me with a smile.

"That is a very pretty speech," she said, sweetly, "and it means, of course, that you will come to-morrow. Angels exact obedience! Gui—, I mean Signor Ferrari, you will accompany the conte and show him the way to the villa?"

Ferrari bent his head with some stiffness. He looked slightly sullen.

"I am glad to see," he observed, with some petulance, "that your persuasions have carried more conviction to the Conte Oliva than mine. To me he was apparently inflexible."

She laughed gayly. "Of course! It is only a woman who can always win her own way—am I not right, conte?" And she glanced up at me with an arch expression of mingled mirth and malice. What a love of mischief she had! She saw that Guido was piqued, and she took intense delight in teasing him still further.

"I cannot tell, madame," I answered her. "I know so little of your charming sex that I need to be instructed. But I instinctively feel that YOU must be right, whatever you say. Your eyes would convert an infidel!"

Again she looked at me with one of those wonderfully brilliant, seductive, arrowy glances—then she rose to take her leave.

"An angel's visit truly," I said, lightly, "sweet, but brief!"

"We shall meet to-morrow," she replied, smiling. "I consider I have your promise; you must not fail me! Come as early as you like in the afternoon, then you will see my little girl Stella. She is very like poor Fabio. Till to-morrow, adieu!"

She extended her hand. I raised it to my lips. She smiled as she withdrew it, and looking at me, or rather at the glasses I wore, she inquired:

"You suffer with your eyes?"

"Ah, madame, a terrible infirmity! I cannot endure the light. But I should not complain—it is a weakness common to age."

"You do not seem to be old," she said, thoughtfully. With a woman's quick eye she had noted, I suppose, the unwrinkled smoothness of my skin, which no disguise could alter. But I exclaimed with affected surprise:

"Not old! With these white hairs!"

"Many young men have them," she said. "At any rate, they often accompany middle age, or what is called the prime of life. And really, in your case, they are very becoming!"

And with a courteous gesture of farewell she moved to leave the room. Both Ferrari and myself hastened to escort her downstairs to her carriage, which stood in waiting at the door—the very carriage and pair of chestnut ponies which I myself had given her as a birthday present. Ferrari offered to assist her in mounting the step of the vehicle; she put his arm aside with a light jesting word and accepted mine instead. I helped her in, and arranged her embroidered wraps about her feet, and she nodded gayly to us both as we stood bareheaded in the afternoon sunlight watching her departure. The horses started at a brisk canter, and in a couple of minutes the dainty equipage was out of sight. When nothing more of it could be seen than the cloud of dust stirred up by its rolling wheels, I turned to look at my companion. His face was stern, and his brows were drawn together in a frown. Stung already! I thought. Already the little asp of jealousy commenced its bitter work! The trifling favor HIS light-o'-love and MY wife had extended to me in choosing MY arm instead of HIS as a momentary support had evidently been sufficient to pique his pride. God! what blind bats men are! With all their high capabilities and immortal destinies, with all the world before them to conquer, they can sink unnerved and beaten down to impotent weakness before the slighting word or insolent gesture of a frivolous feminine creature, whose best devotions are paid to the mirror that reflects her in the most becoming light! How easy would be my vengeance, I mused, as I watched Ferrari. I touched him on the shoulder; he started from his uncomfortable reverie and forced a smile. I held out a cigar-case.

"What are you dreaming of?" I asked him, laughingly. "Hebe as she waited on the gods, or Venus as she rose in bare beauty from the waves? Either, neither, or both? I assure you a comfortable smoke is as pleasant in its way as the smile of a woman."

He took a cigar and lighted it, but made no answer.

"You are dull, my friend," I continued, gayly, hooking my arm through his and pacing him up and down on the turf in front of his studio. "Wit, they say, should be sharpened by the glance of a bright eye; how comes it that the edge of your converse seems blunted? Perhaps your feelings are too deep for words? If so, I do not wonder at it, for the lady is extremely lovely."

He glanced quickly at me.

"Did I not say so?" he exclaimed. "Of all creatures under heaven she is surely the most perfect! Even you, conte, with your cynical ideas about women, even you were quite subdued and influenced by her; I could see it!"

I puffed slowly at my cigar and pretended to meditate.

"Was I?" I said at last, with an air of well-acted surprise. "Really subdued and influenced? I do not think so. But I admit I have never seen a woman so entirely beautiful."

He stopped in his walk, loosened his arm from mine, and regarded me fixedly.

"I told you so," he said, deliberately. "You must remember that I told you so. And now perhaps I ought to warn you."

"Warn me!" I exclaimed, in feigned alarm. "Of what? against whom? Surely not the Contessa Romani, to whom you were so anxious to introduce me? She has no illness, no infectious disorder? She is not dangerous to life or limb, is she?"

Ferrari laughed at the anxiety I displayed for my own bodily safety—an anxiety which I managed to render almost comic—but he looked somewhat relieved too.

"Oh, no," he said, "I meant nothing of that kind. I only think it fair to tell you that she has very seductive manners, and she may pay you little attentions which would flatter any man who was not aware that they are only a part of her childlike, pretty ways; in short, they might lead him erroneously to suppose himself the object of her particular preference, and—"

I broke into a violent fit of laughter, and clapped him roughly on the shoulder.

"Your warning is quite unnecessary, my good young friend," I said. "Come now, do I look a likely man to attract the attention of an adored and capricious beauty? Besides, at my age the idea is monstrous! I could figure as her father, as yours, if you like, but in the capacity of a lover—impossible!"

He eyed me attentively

"She said you did not seem old," he murmured, half to himself and half to me.

"Oh, I grant you she made me that little compliment, certainly," I answered, amused at the suspicions that evidently tortured his mind; "and I accepted it as it was meant—in kindness. I am well aware what a battered and unsightly wreck of a man I must appear in her eyes when contrasted with YOU, Sir Antinous!"

He flushed warmly. Then, with a half-apologetic air, he said:

"Well, you must forgive me if I have seemed overscrupulous. The contessa is like a—a sister to me; in fact, my late friend Fabio encouraged a fraternal affection between us, and now he is gone I feel it more than ever my duty to protect her, as it were, from herself. She is so young and light-hearted and thoughtless that—but you understand me, do you not?"

I bowed. I understood him perfectly. He wanted no more poachers on the land he himself had pilfered. Quite right, from his point of view! But I was the rightful owner of the land after all, and I naturally had a different opinion of the matter. However, I made no remark, and feigned to be rather bored by the turn the conversation was taking. Seeing this, Ferrari exerted himself to be agreeable; he became a gay and entertaining companion once more, and after he had fixed the hour for our visit to the Villa Romani the next afternoon, our talk turned upon various matters connected with Naples and its inhabitants and their mode of life. I hazarded a few remarks on the general immorality and loose principles that prevailed among the people, just to draw my companion out and sound his character more thoroughly—though I thought I knew his opinions well.

"Pooh, my dear conte," he exclaimed, with a light laugh, as he threw away the end of his cigar, and watched it as it burned dully like a little red lamp among the green grass where it had fallen, "what is immorality after all? Merely a matter of opinion. Take the hackneyed virtue of conjugal fidelity. When followed out to the better end what is the good of it—where does it lead? Why should a man be tied to one woman when he has love enough for twenty? The pretty slender girl whom he chose as a partner in his impulsive youth may become a fat, coarse, red-faced female horror by the time he has attained to the full vigor of manhood—and yet, as long as she lives, the law insists that the full tide of passion shall flow always in one direction—always to the same dull, level, unprofitable shore! The law is absurd, but it exists; and the natural consequence is that we break it. Society pretends to be horrified when we do—yes, I know; but it is all pretense. And the thing is no worse in Naples than it is in London, the capital of the moral British race, only here we are perfectly frank, and make no effort to hide our little sins, while there, they cover them up carefully and make believe to be virtuous. It is the veriest humbug—the parable of Pharisee and Publican over again.

"Not quite," I observed, "for the Publican was repentant, and Naples is not."

"Why should she be?" demanded Ferrari, gayly; "what, in the name of Heaven, is the good of being penitent about anything? Will it mend matters? Who is to be pacified or pleased by our contrition? God? My dear conte, there are very few of us nowadays who believe in a Deity. Creation is a mere caprice of the natural elements. The best thing we can do is to enjoy ourselves while we live; we have a very short time of it, and when we die there is an end of all things so far as we are concerned."

"That is your creed?" I asked.

"That is my creed, certainly. It was Solomon's in his heart of hearts. 'Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' It is the creed of Naples, and of nearly all Italy. Of course the vulgar still cling to exploded theories of superstitious belief, but the educated classes are far beyond the old-world notions."

"I believe you," I answered, composedly. I had no wish to argue with him; I only sought to read his shallow soul through and through that I might be convinced of his utter worthlessness. "According to modern civilization there is really no special need to be virtuous unless it suits us. The only thing necessary for pleasant living is to avoid public scandal."

"Just so!" agreed Ferrari; "and that can always be easily managed. Take a woman's reputation—nothing is so easily lost, we all know, before she is actually married; but marry her well, and she is free. She can have a dozen lovers if she likes, and if she is a good manager her husband need never be the wiser. He has HIS amours, of course—why should she not have hers also? Only some women are clumsy, they are over-sensitive and betray themselves too easily; then the injured husband (carefully concealing his little peccadilloes) finds everything out and there is a devil of a row—a moral row, which is the worst kind of row. But a really clever woman can always steer clear of slander if she likes."

Contemptible ruffian! I thought, glancing at his handsome face and figure with scarcely veiled contempt. With all his advantages of education and his well-bred air he was yet ruffian to the core—as low in nature, if not lower, than the half-savage tramp for whom no social law has ever existed or ever will exist. But I merely observed:

"It is easy to see that you have a thorough knowledge of the world and its ways. I admire your perception! From your remarks I judge that you have no sympathy with marital wrongs?"

"Not the least," he replied, dryly; "they are too common and too ludicrous. The 'wronged husband,' as he considers himself in such cases, always cuts such an absurd figure."

"Always?" I inquired, with apparent curiosity.

"Well, generally speaking, he does. How can he remedy the matter? He can only challenge his wife's lover. A duel is fought in which neither of the opponents are killed, they wound each other slightly, embrace, weep, have coffee together, and for the future consent to share the lady's affections amicably."

"Veramente!" I exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly cursing his detestable flippancy; "that is the fashionable mode of taking vengeance?"

"Absolutely the one respectable way of doing it," he replied; "it is only the canaille who draw heart's blood in earnest."

Only the canaille! I looked at him fixedly. His smiling eyes met mine with a frank and fearless candor. Evidently he was not ashamed of his opinions, he rather gloried in them. As he stood there with the warm sunlight playing upon his features he seemed the very type of youthful and splendid manhood; an Apollo in exterior—in mind a Silenus. My soul sickened at the sight of him. I felt that the sooner this strong treacherous life was crushed the better; there would be one traitor less in the world at any rate. The thought of my dread but just purpose passed over me like the breath of a bitter wind—a tremor shook my nerves. My face must have betrayed some sign of my inward emotion, for Ferrari exclaimed:

"You are fatigued, conte? You are ill! Pray take my arm!"

He extended it as he spoke. I put it gently but firmly aside.

"It is nothing," I said, coldly; "a mere faintness which often overcomes me, the remains of a recent illness." Here I glanced at my watch; the afternoon was waning rapidly.

"If you will excuse me," I continued, "I will now take leave of you. Regarding the pictures you have permitted me to select, my servant shall call for them this evening to save you the trouble of sending them."

"It is no trouble—" began Ferrari.

"Pardon me," I interrupted him; "you must allow me to arrange the matter in my own way. I am somewhat self-willed, as you know."

He bowed and smiled—the smile of a courtier and sycophant—a smile I hated. He eagerly proposed to accompany me back to my hotel, but I declined this offer somewhat peremptorily, though at the same time thanking him for his courtesy. The truth was I had had almost too much of his society; the strain on my nerves began to tell; I craved to be alone. I felt that if I were much longer with him I should be tempted to spring at him and throttle the life out of him. As it was, I bade him adieu with friendly though constrained politeness; he was profuse in his acknowledgments of the favor I had done him by purchasing his pictures. I waived all thanks aside, assuring him that my satisfaction in the matter far exceeded his, and that I was proud to be the possessor of such valuable proofs of his genius. He swallowed my flattery as eagerly as a fish swallows bait, and we parted on excellent terms. He watched me from his door as I walked down the hilly road with the slow and careful step of an elderly man; once out of his sight, however, I quickened my pace, for the tempest of conflicting sensations within me made it difficult for me to maintain even the appearance of composure. On entering my apartment at the hotel the first thing that met my eyes was a large gilt osier basket, filled with fine fruit and flowers, placed conspicuously on the center-table.