a--but I think no one would be justified in calling her an
adventuress."

"Was she married?"

"There was something matronly in her majestic appearance, yet she never
spoke of a husband. The old Italian woman, her duenna, always called her
Donna Isabella, but she possessed little more knowledge of her past than
I."

"Is that good or evil?"

"Nothing at all, Fraulein."

"And what led her to Rome?"

"She practised the art of singing, of which she was mistress; but did
not cease studying, and made great progress in Rome. I was permitted to
instruct her in counterpoint."

"And did she appear in public as a singer?"

"Yes and no. A distinguished foreign prelate was her patron, and his
recommendation opened every door, even the Palestrina's. So the church
music at aristocratic weddings was entrusted to her, and she did not
refuse to sing at noble houses, but never appeared for pay. I know that,
for she would not allow any one else to play her accompaniments.
She liked my music, and so through her I went into many aristocratic
houses."

"Was she rich?"

"No, Fraulein. She had beautiful dresses and brilliant jewels, but was
compelled to economize. Remittances of money came to her at times from
Florence, but the gold pieces slipped quickly through her fingers, for
though she lived plainly and eat scarcely enough for a bird, while her
delicate strength required stronger food, she was lavish to imprudence
if she saw poor artists in want, and she knew most of them, for she did
not shrink from sitting with them over their wine in my company."

"With artists and musicians?"

"Mere artists of noble sentiments. At times she surpassed them all in
her overflowing mirth."

"At times?"

"Yes, only at times, for she had also sorrowful, pitiably sorrowful
hours and days, but as sunshine and shower alternate in an April day,
despair and extravagant gayety ruled her nature by turns."

"A strange character. Do you know her end?"

"No, Fraulein. One evening she received a letter from Milan, which
must have contained bad news, and the next day vanished without any
farewell."

"And you did not try to follow her?"

Wilhelm blushed, and answered in an embarrassed tone:

"I had no right to do so, and just after her departure I fell
sick--dangerously sick."

"You loved her?"

"Fraulein, I must beg you--"

"You loved her! And did she return your affection?"

"We have known each other only since yesterday, Fraulein von
H