Part 1 — CHAPTER XXV.

Fleurange hesitated a moment, then followed her natural impulse, which was always straightforward and courageous. She resolutely entered the salon by the terrace window, and when the princess raised her head she saw the young girl before her, wrapped in her white burnous, with her bouquet in her hand. Though the princess was expecting her, this sudden apparition surprised her to such a degree that she gazed at her for a moment without speaking, as if she were a supernatural vision. But it was only for a moment. Fleurange perceived that the anger she repressed in her son’s presence was now about to burst forth.

The princess wiped away her tears. Her eyes expressed at once wrath and disdain. She hastily rose, and was about to add severe words to the imperious gesture with which she pointed towards the door with one hand, and had already placed the other rudely on the young girl’s shoulder, when the latter, without arrogance and without fear, looked her in the face.

The expression of Fleurange’s large eyes was such as can only be compared to that magnetic virtue—that sometimes subdues, they say, the fury of beings destitute of reason. No words could have expressed to such a degree the uprightness and purity of her soul. With all her faults, there was a nobleness in the princess’ nature which was touched by that look, and responded to it. Her eyes turned away: she fell back on her chaise longue, and unresistingly allowed Fleurange to take both her hands, which had just made so threatening a gesture. She held them for some moments grasped in her own, but neither of them spoke.

At last Fleurange said in a sweet, calm voice: “Princess, I was on the terrace, and heard everything.”

A new flash of indignation awoke in the princess’ eyes, and her mouth resumed its expression of disdain. The young girl’s face slightly flushed.

“You will readily believe,” she continued, “that I did not go there with the intention of listening. But hearing my name, I stopped. It was wrong, I acknowledge, but I had no time for reflection. Pardon me, and forgive also,” she added in a more troubled tone, “the momentary displeasure Count George has caused you on my account.”

“Momentary!” repeated the princess in a cold, ironical tone.

“At least,” continued Fleurange, “you will find it only for an instant that this notion, this folly—in short, what you have just heard—will be serious enough to annoy or afflict you.”

“Gabrielle!”

“Allow me to continue, princess; you shall reply afterwards. My heart is so full of gratitude towards you—”

“Do not talk to me of your gratitude,” cried the princess, interrupting her, and breaking out anew. “It is precisely because I thought I had some claims on it that I feel so deeply wounded. After loving you so much, I am tempted to hate you. It is your perfidy, your ingratitude—”

“I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful,” said Fleurange, turning pale. “Allow me to prove I am not. I ask it even more for your own sake than for mine.”

The princess became calm once more, as if appeased by her sweet voice, and seemed to resign herself to let Fleurange continue. She leaned her head on her hand, and listened some moments without changing her attitude.

“No,” repeated Fleurange, “I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful, and God knows what I am ready to suffer to spare you this mortification or any other!—My first thought was to go away—to flee—that you might be delivered from my presence and all the annoyance it might cause you. But, princess, that would not have been the best course. He must forget me. Therefore I must not disappear in so romantic a fashion.”

“What do you mean?” said the princess with surprise.

“That I must certainly go away, but not in a way that will induce him to pursue me. The less obstinate he is made by any appearance of opposition, the sooner I shall be effaced from his memory.”

“You understand him well,” said the princess, more and more astonished; “and you talk very coolly,” added she. “Then you do not love poor George at all?”

A moment before she had been greatly irritated at her protegée’s presumption, but now, mother-like, she seemed ready to take offence at her indifference.

A lively blush suddenly suffused Fleurange’s face, and great tears came into her eyes. “I do not love him?—My God! O my God!” murmured she in a stifled tone, “have pity on my poor heart!”

But she almost immediately regained her self-control, and the princess, more affected than she wished to appear, became attentive, and at length perceived the importance of what she was about to hear.

Fleurange then rapidly explained her design. It was the same she had formed an hour before at her cousin’s: only then she was desirous of concealing the motive and duration of her absence from the princess. Now everything was simplified; she would set out with the Steinbergs for Perugia, and afterwards find a pretext for prolonging her absence. Only it was important the princess should appear to expect her return, and, above all, should manifest no anxiety as to her son’s fidelity to his promise.

“That promise,” continued Fleurange, not without a tone of just pride, “I venture to say that M. le Comte George, in placing it under the protection of my will, was right in his conviction it would be well kept.”

While she was talking, all the princess’ resentment vanished, and changed gradually to profound gratitude. Looking at Fleurange as she stood before her, she realized, if she had wished to abuse her ascendency or even take advantage of it, no filial respect would have sufficed to bring George to submission: no maternal authority have succeeded in restraining him. Whatever it might cost her to acknowledge it, she could not deny that, if this double wound was spared her pride and her affection, it was due to the generous disinterestedness of her whom she had just treated with so much haughtiness, as well as to her clear judgment. Yes, she was perfectly right in thinking it would not do to disappear and suddenly tear herself away, as it were, from George. The princess knew, better than any one else, to what degree of tenacity this kind of contradiction might lead her son, and it was precisely this knowledge of his character alone that had just given her the power of restraining herself in his presence. The means suggested by Fleurange was therefore the best to ensure his future safety. The princess’ great hope was in the mobility of George’s nature, provided, on the one hand, he were withdrawn from the dangerous charm of Fleurange’s presence, and, on the other, they did not appear separated by the prestige of a great obstacle. Nothing, in fact, could be more judicious than the advice this young girl gave contrary to her own interests. She was too much a woman of the world not to comprehend this, and was grateful to her for it. Once more she might hope to attain the aim of her whole life, and with this end in view she yielded without remorse to the necessity of trampling under foot the noble heart that was immolating itself. We will even venture to affirm that, if she was preoccupied with anything beyond the present danger, it was not Fleurange’s crushed life, but rather the effect of this unfortunate occurrence on her own comfort and habits. Nevertheless, when they separated at the end of this long conversation, the princess folded Fleurange in her arms with many demonstrations of affection, and when the latter was once more alone in her chamber she felt comparatively happy. She abhorred all dissimulation, and the important step she had just taken in the path of courageous frankness seemed to have removed a burden from her heart. She was still in that state of somewhat excessive satisfaction which succeeds a great effort, when, in entering her chamber, she threw down the bouquet she had in her hand. In doing so, a paper she had not noticed fell from it to the floor. She picked it up with some surprise, opened it mechanically, saw the writing was unknown to her, and read it without comprehending it at first:

“To live without the power of reparation: to suffer without being able to expiate: are these torments that belong to earth, or hell? Not far from you a man lives and suffers thus. You who pray, pray for him!”

Fleurange read and re-read these words two or three times without attaching any special importance to them. Suddenly she shuddered and began to tremble. The concluding words were the refrain of a song sung at one of the soirées at the Old Mansion in the hearing of the only person she knew in the world who had reason to write the other part of the note she had just read.

But was it possible! Could it have been Felix, her guilty and unhappy cousin, who wrote it, and this very evening placed it in her bouquet? Was it his hand that threw it? At this thought she shivered as if the shadow of one dead had fallen upon her. Or was it simply a mystification? The history of the Dornthals’ ruin was not wholly unknown at Florence. Perhaps some one wished to frighten or puzzle her. She grew bewildered in trying to unravel this new mystery. How solve the doubt? How even speak of it without reviving a hateful remembrance, or making a painful revelation?

She finally bethought herself of Julian’s presence at Florence, and this relieved her mind: he would be able to discover the truth, and know better than any one else how to avoid injuring in his researches the unhappy man who was perhaps this very moment hiding not far from her a blasted and dishonored life.

If the Princess Catherine had been told the previous evening she was about to be deprived of her charming companion, the news would have been sufficient to cause a return of the alarming symptoms from which, thanks to her care, she had but just recovered. But greater interests than her fondness for Gabrielle were at stake, and her selfishness itself was overruled, or, rather, assumed another form, in view of the danger she reproached herself for not having foreseen, and which threatened an essential element in her happiness, as well as the accomplishment of one of her dearest wishes.

Not to be unjust to the princess, we must acknowledge this wish was reasonable, and in her persistency on this point she gave as great a proof of genuine maternal sagacity as of worldly ambition. We should also add that the wish in question was in accordance with one sacred in her eyes—the wish of the adored husband of her youth. His memory was interwoven with her earlier days, when her life, simpler and better, promised to be something higher than succeeding years had realized.

After she became a widow, she had no guide but herself, and when, beautiful, wealthy, and still young, she appeared in the fashionable world at St. Petersburg, her light and frivolous nature had no restraint but her pride. In the height of the intoxication of this second epoch of her life, she always respected the limits the fashionable world itself sets, and beyond which refuses its consideration and respect, even while still lavishing its flattery and incense. Her pride, in particular, prevented her from transgressing these limits—that was the dominant trait in her character—and prompted her to aim at the highest position at all times and in all places. And after conferring on her life a kind of dignity, it guided her in the choice of a second husband. She thought herself happy in obtaining rank, honors, and wealth, but she soon found she had paid too dear for these advantages; and perhaps she would not have passed through the trials of an ill-assorted union as irreproachably as the period of liberty that preceded it, if, at the end of two years, death had not restored that liberty a second time.

After this, nothing occurred to trouble the brilliant and prosperous course of a life which, in spite of generous instincts and a mind considerably cultivated, was given wholly up to frivolity, with the exception of her affection for her son. But however lively and passionate this affection might be, it was wanting in the dignity of maternal authority. Her charming boy, who from his earliest years possessed every grace and attraction which nature in her most generous mood could confer, as well as a rare mind and uncommon beauty, gratified her maternal pride, which is so excessive in proud natures. The princess, proud of her promising son, did not perceive she was not obeyed as fully as she was adored; and years passed away thus till the epoch,

“Ove uom s’innamora.”

Then the Princess Catherine began to realize she had no authority over her idolized son, and that she needed great prudence and skill to avoid what would have been the most trying of failures, for all her ambition was now centred in him—an ambition even more ardent than she had ever felt for herself.

Then sprang up the earnest desire of seeing his father’s wish realized—a wish expressed while George was still in his cradle.

The Count de Walden’s neighbor in Livonia was a brother in arms, a dear and intimate friend, named the Count de Liningen. Both noblemen of the highest rank in the province, wealthy, and possessing contiguous estates, they agreed to unite their children unless their wishes were opposed to it when old enough to fulfil the agreement.

Neither of the two friends lived long enough to catch even a glimpse of the dawn of that day. Three years after the birth of his son, the Count de Walden was no longer living, and before the young Vera, who was a year younger than George, reached her eleventh year, the death of her father, and, soon after, that of her mother, left her mistress of all their possessions. The young heiress was sent to St. Petersburg till she was of age, and there was reared in strict seclusion by one of her aunts, who long before had given up the world.

The Princess Catherine had always retained a respectful remembrance of the Count de Walden’s wish, which was renewed on his death-bed; but that wish assumed another aspect in her eyes when, towards the epoch of which we have been speaking, the young Vera suddenly emerged from her retirement and was presented at court. The sensation she produced, her immediate popularity, the place at once accorded her among the empress’ maids of honor, gave an éclat to her entrance into society which the princess deeply regretted George had not witnessed. But he had been absent several months from St. Petersburg, and was now visiting Paris for the first time. His mother neglected no opportunity of seeing the young maid of honor, and this was facilitated by the friendly relations that formerly existed between the two families. These relations were now renewed on both sides with an eagerness which seemed most favorable to the project formed during George’s and Vera’s infancy, though they had never met since that time. The princess’ impatience for her son’s return increased. Vera seemed formed to captivate him, and as to George, his mother could not be anxious as to the effect he would produce.

At last he returned, and everything indeed seemed to favor the princess’ plans. George was greatly struck, almost captivated. The lovely Vera was still more so. But the princess, in her ardor for this marriage, took the false step of speaking to her son with an anxiety that had precisely a contrary effect to that she wished to produce. George had not come from Paris quite disposed to relinquish his independence at once and bind himself for ever. He became cautious. The words Vera perhaps expected to hear died away on his lips, and changed into meaningless flattery. His mother, without abandoning her hopes, felt their realization must be deferred. But they were both young. With her penetration as a woman and a mother, she was sure she was not deceived as to the effect her son had produced. She thought she could trust to the durability of the sentiment he had inspired, and believed time would bring George back to the feet of her whom she destined for him; and she doubted this the less because, in one of their conversations on this subject, he acknowledged no woman had ever attracted him more strongly, and he almost promised his mother not to offer his hand to any one else.

In this way affairs remained. George returned to Paris, and thence to Italy, where his mother had decided to live. But meanwhile, as we know, Fleurange’s sudden appearance, and other influences we have caught a glimpse of, had gradually drawn his mind and heart in a very different direction from what his mother wished him to take. At his last visit to St. Petersburg, during which Fleurange became an inmate of the princess’ house, the latter had the double displeasure of learning her son avoided Vera, and that this coolness, so cutting to the young girl, was malevolently attributed by many to George’s political opinions. This greatly troubled his mother. Whoever knew Russia at that period is aware that the privation of its ruler’s favor was not regarded as a slight misfortune. If the insulting words of a former and not very remote epoch were no longer in force, “If the emperor no longer declared a man was only something when he was speaking to him, and as long as he was speaking to him,” many people at St. Petersburg acted as if he had so spoken; and the princess could not resign herself to see her son in the position of a man in disgrace. And yet his rash and imprudent language kept her constantly anxious on this point. It was therefore with something like a maternal instinct of approaching danger she ardently desired his marriage with Vera, which would give him the liberty of remaining at court or leaving it, and in the latter case of returning to Livonia under the safeguard of favor, and taking the position his rank and their united estates would entitle him—a position in which he could dispense with the favor of the court.

“Oh! why is it not so?” sometimes exclaimed the princess with mingled anguish and impatience. “Why is he not already sheltered from all I fear?”

And then, contrary to the suggestions of her prudence, she allowed herself to broach the subject to her son, which, in the interests of her design, it would have been better not to have done. She thus, in spite of herself, provoked a resistance, the real source of which, unsuspected by her, daily became more clear to himself.

We can now imagine the effect of the confidence George had been led to repose in the princess in a fit of capricious frankness. On the whole, he did not fear his mother; and though of course he had never subjected her condescension to such a trial, he was convinced, whatever repugnance she might at first manifest to his wishes, a little persistence on his part would triumph sooner or later.

For nearly four months he had, it is true, been endeavoring, contrary to his habit, to conceal the attraction he felt, but it was that he might not disturb his mother too soon, or the young girl either, and thereby perhaps deprive himself of the charm of her presence while he was still uncertain as to his own plans. These plans he now believed matured. Under the increasing ascendency of present influences, the remembrance of Vera gradually faded away, and the future as well as the present seemed linked with her who now filled his life. He therefore considered it opportune to allow his mother at once to have a glimpse of what was going on in his heart.

In spite of her inexpressible alarm, the princess had sufficient control over her feelings to receive this annoying disclosure with apparent calmness, and almost conceal from her son the effect of the most painful disappointment she had ever met with.

At first all seemed hopeless. As to Gabrielle’s grace and attractiveness, who knew and appreciated them more than herself? What could she do to counteract their influence, so long exercised unsuspected by too credulous a mother? How foolish she had been!—How imprudent!—How fatal her confidence!—Her reliance on Fleurange’s virtue, the only danger that had ever occurred to her, prevented her fears. And who would ever have suspected her of so much ambition or him of such folly?

Never had such a tempest raged in her bosom before. So violent a hatred had never succeeded to so much fondness. But before her anger had time to burst fully out, all these feelings underwent a new transformation, and one still more unforeseen than the first.

Her enemy became her ally—she against whom she felt herself powerless, now came to her aid against herself, and George was restored to her by the hand that could so easily have led him for ever away.

In view of so great a danger and such unexpected assistance, all the considerations that would so recently have made her dread Fleurange’s departure now induced her to hasten it, without losing sight, however, of the importance, so reasonably pointed out by her, of doing nothing to lead George to connect this departure with his disclosure and give it the appearance of an irrevocable separation. Self-interest was supreme, and there was no danger this time that the Princess Catherine would be wanting in prudence or shrewdness, or would not at need have recourse to skilful diplomacy.

XXVII.

Everything really seemed to favor the plan the princess had at heart. The opportune arrival of the Steinbergs afforded a reasonable pretext it might have been difficult to find at another time without exciting George’s suspicion.

The following day, when Fleurange timidly expressed a desire before them all of accompanying her cousin a part of the way to Perugia, the Marquis Adelardi, who was present, declared the excursion would prove very beneficial, and begged the princess to allow her young protégée a short vacation, of which her overtaxed strength had need. George joined his entreaties to those of the marquis, and the princess seemed to yield more through consideration for them than condescension to Fleurange.

She had preserved an appearance of sorrowful gravity since the night before, which did not suffer George to forget he was in disgrace. Nor did she conceal a certain coolness towards Fleurange, which he naturally attributed to his communication respecting her. It was the princess’ intention not to allow him to perceive the perfect reassurance which her conversation with the young girl had restored. George comprehended his mother was displeased with him, but he had expected this displeasure; he saw she suppressed her resentment and continued to treat Fleurange kindly, and he was touched by her forbearance. He felt she relied on his word, and was grateful for her trust.

Everything was therefore arranged in the most natural manner. A fortnight was the time allowed for the projected excursion. The Steinbergs, deceived like the rest, were as much overjoyed as surprised at the prospect of a pleasure they had not dared anticipate, and thus everything fell in with the princess’ wishes without her appearing to do anything but yield to the desires of the rest.

The Steinbergs were to leave the following morning. This last day was to be devoted to revisiting several museums, and would end with a walk to San Miniato. Fleurange boldly proposed to join them. A feverish agitation made inaction insupportable. She feared finding herself alone with George for an instant, and was sure of being readily dispensed from her attendance on this last day. The princess’ consent, in fact, was not difficult to obtain, and towards the middle of the day Fleurange set out with Julian and Clara for the Palazzo Pitti. After visiting that gallery and several others they continued their ride, and at length stopped at the foot of the ascent to San Miniato. There they left the carriage. While slowly ascending the steep hill, Fleurange took out the paper that fell from her bouquet the night before, and gave it to Julian to read, telling him the suspicion which had arisen in her mind.

“It is strange,” said the latter with an anxious look, after reading the note and carefully examining the writing. “Nothing could be more painful now than to meet Felix again, and yet this paper only reawakens a previous suspicion respecting him.”

“You had already suspected his return to Europe?”

“Yes, but only from a slight indication, and I should not have mentioned it if this new incident had not occurred. Several months ago, I was making some necessary researches at Bologna, when my attention was drawn to a work in the library in which I was taking notes. There was a question of some contested historical point, respecting which several passages had been copied from the curious manuscripts in the library. The writing was but recently interrupted, as was evident from the open page. I was reading it with a good deal of interest when my attention was completely withdrawn from the subject of the work by some words scribbled almost illegibly on a paper the copyist had used to try his pen on. Your name, Gabrielle, was written on it several times; then the two letters F. D.; and finally, ‘Felix—happy; what irony—Felix!’ I examined the extracts with increased attention. The writing did not look like his, but was a studied fac-simile of the manuscript he was copying. As to the scribbling on the loose paper, it was wholly unrecognizable. I asked the librarian some questions, and learned that the work was for some great Florentine nobleman whose name he was ignorant of, but the copyist was an Italian named Fabiano Dini.”

“Is that all?” asked Fleurange. “Were you not able to learn anything more definite?”

“Nothing. The next day the unfinished work had disappeared, and during the remainder of my stay at Bologna the copyist did not return to the library. I kept the scrawl that had puzzled me, but thought no more about it. Allow me to retain this note, that I may compare the writing with that.”

“Could it really have been Felix? Or is all this a mere accident?”

“It is impossible to tell. It might have been he, for you know he had a thorough knowledge of Italian, and it might also have been one of his friends familiar with his history. All we have ever been able to discover respecting him is, that he went to America with questionable travelling companions—Italians, Germans, and Poles—mostly driven out of their own country for good reasons.”

Clara’s smiling face grew sad during this account, and Fleurange felt her heart contract with increased melancholy. This revival of one of the saddest memories of her life seemed to add a mournful presage to the sad realities of the day.

However, she kept her sorrows to herself. Her cousin must for the present remain ignorant of the cause as well as the real length of the journey she would begin on the morrow, and on every account it was best for her to seek distraction from her thoughts. Therefore, after entering the church of San Miniato, she gave her whole attention for a while to the frescoes, paintings, and mosaics around her, and listened to the explanations Julian gave respecting the numerous symbols—a kind of Christian hieroglyphics which are alone comprehended by those who seek something in art beyond the mere form that strikes the senses. They spent nearly an hour in this manner without perceiving the flight of time and the increasing dimness of the church. They were at length preparing to leave, when at the door they found themselves face to face with Count George and the Marquis Adelardi. The former said in a gay tone he knew their excursion was to end at San Miniato, and he had proposed to his friend to join them here. “We were neither of us unworthy to hear what Steinberg would have to say, but unfortunately we are too late.”

While he was speaking, Fleurange, overcome with surprise, involuntarily shrank back as if to hide herself in the obscurity of the church, but daylight was rapidly disappearing, and they all agreed it was time to return to the carriage, which was awaiting them at the foot of the hill. She therefore followed the others, but, though she was the last, George waited for her, and before she had a chance to avoid him offered her his arm. Adelardi had given his to Clara, and Julian accompanied them. In this way they slowly descended this charming declivity, looking at the prospect—one of the finest views of Florence, over which the setting sun now cast the soft rays of its departing light.

George slackened his steps so as to allow the others to precede them, and was thus, in a manner, left alone with Fleurange. For a time neither of them spoke. Though very different in their natures, the emotion of both was profound. As for her, the consciousness that this must be their last interview, added to the repressed but profound tenderness of her nature, made this the sweetest but most heart-rending hour of her life. He, on the contrary, felt freed from his previous restraint by the explanation he had had with his mother. Besides, he was not unskilful in reading the feminine heart, and not without sufficient penetration to understand what was passing in that he imagined he could now hear beating beside him, and he felt at liberty to speak more openly than he had yet done.

“Fleurange!” he suddenly said. She trembled, and tried to withdraw the hand that rested on his arm, but he held it.

“No, no, allow me to retain your hand, and let me—me alone—call you by this name,” added he softly. “Let it be a name sacred to my use; you are willing, are you not?”

He pressed the hand he still held, and raised it to his lips. Fleurange clearly saw amid the soft tones of his words an assurance but feebly disguised. But, alas! if she had dared reveal her real sentiments at this moment, she would not have dreamed of showing any offence at this. Yes, she loved him; he did not doubt it, that was evident. But what of that? It would have been a great relief could she have avowed it boldly to every one as well as to himself. George’s assurance was certainly rather too evident, but how readily she pardoned him! How happy she would have been to tell him he was not mistaken, and that her whole life should prove it. This would have been the sincere cry of her heart, had the clearness of her conscience been for a moment obscured at this dangerous hour. But it was not so.

“Monsieur le Comte—” said she after a long silence.

“George! Oh! call me George!” he passionately cried. “Let me hear you, at least once, call me by my name.”

Poor Fleurange! She withdrew her hand from his arm and left him for a moment, endeavoring to control the too violent agitation of her heart. He followed her, and she soon resumed, with apparent calmness: “I never expected to hear you call me by my name again, and hoped I should not.”

“Hoped! Tell me then I am mistaken; that I am presuming and foolish; that I have been deceived in thinking I read in your eyes something besides absolute indifference.”

She made no reply.

“Fleurange!” continued he impetuously, “your silence wounds and chills me. Have I not, at least, a right to some answer?”

“But have you any right to question me? Ah! Monsieur le Comte, you would be more noble and generous were you more mindful of what you are and who I am.”

“Fleurange,” said the count with a grave accent of sincerity, far more dangerous than that of passion, “you shall be my wife if you will consent to be—if you will accept this hand I offer you.”

“With your mother’s consent?” said Fleurange slowly, and in a low tone. “Can you assure me of that?”

After a moment’s hesitation, George replied: “No, not to-day; but she will yield her consent, I assure you.”

Fleurange hesitated in her turn. She knew only too well to what a degree this hope was illusory, but this was her last opportunity of conversing with him. The next day would commence their lifelong separation, which time, distance, and prolonged absence would continually widen. There was no longer any danger in telling the truth—the truth, alas! so devoid of importance now, but which would, perhaps, second the duty she had to accomplish quite as well as contradiction.

“Ah! well,” she at last replied with simplicity. “Yes, why should I deny it? Should life prove more favorable to us; if by some unforeseen circumstance, impossible to conceive, your mother should cheerfully consent to receive me as a daughter, oh! then—what answer I would make you know without my telling you. You are likewise perfectly aware that until that day I will never listen to you.”

“But that day will come,” cried George vehemently, “and that speedily.”

“Perhaps—” said Fleurange. “Who knows what time has in store for us? And who knows that in time the obstacle may not come from yourself?”

She endeavored to say these last words in a playful tone. They were hardly uttered before she suddenly stopped, but the shade of the large cypresses that bordered the road prevented George from seeing the tears that inundated her face.

She then left him and walked rapidly on to overtake Julian, George soon joined them, and they all continued on the way for some time without speaking. The light was fading gradually away, and they walked more cautiously as they approached the foot of the hill. Just before reaching their carriage, they met two men walking rapidly along, and conversing too earnestly to notice them beneath the shade of the cypresses. But their features could be distinguished, and the two cousins and Julian felt a thrill of sympathetic horror as, in one of them, they recognized Felix!—

Adelardi, on his side, seemed surprised and annoyed also, but George, after following them with his eyes like the rest, left his party, turned back, and spoke to one of them. The latter at his approach respectfully uncovered. George said a few words to him in a low tone, and the two men then kept on their way. The count joined his party again.

“Who was that you were speaking to, if the question be not indiscreet?” said Adelardi.

“By no means,” replied George, unhesitatingly. “It was Fabiano Dini, the young Italian I spoke to you about, who is my agent, you know, and a very intelligent one, in purchasing curiosities, and who also aids me in my little historical and artistic researches. He has been away, and only returned two days ago. I had a word to say to him.”

“He was in very bad company,” said Adelardi, frowning.

The two cousins, meanwhile, entered the carriage; Julian, obliged to follow, heard no more.

TO BE CONTINUED.