ved each year? Are they not evidence of her complicity?"

"If she had been an accomplice, would she have thanked you for that
money? And then, was she not closely watched? But the child, being free,
could easily go to a neighboring city, negotiate with some dealer and
sell him one diamond or two diamonds, as he might wish, upon condition
that the money should be sent from Paris, and that proceeding could be
repeated from year to year."

An indescribable anxiety oppressed the Dreux-Soubise and their guests.
There was something in the tone and attitude of Floriani--something more
than the chevalier's assurance which, from the beginning, had so annoyed
the count. There was a touch of irony, that seemed rather hostile than
sympathetic. But the count affected to laugh, as he said:

"All that is very ingenious and interesting, and I congratulate you upon
your vivid imagination."

"No, not at all," replied Floriani, with the utmost gravity, "I imagine
nothing. I simply describe the events as they must have occurred."

"But what do you know about them?"

"What you yourself have told me. I picture to myself the life of the
mother and child down there in the country; the illness of the mother,
the schemes of and inventions of the child sell the precious stones in
order to save his mother's life, or, at least, soothe her dying moments.
Her illness overcomes her. She dies. Years roll on. The child becomes
a man; and then--and now I will give my imagination a free rein--let
us suppose that the man feels a desire to return to the home of his
childhood, that he does so, and that he meets there certain people who
suspect and accuse his mother.... do you realize the sorrow and anguish
of such an interview in the very house wherein the original drama was
played?"

His words seemed to echo for a few seconds in the ensuing silence,
and one could read upon the faces of the Count and Countess de Dreux a
bewildered effort to comprehend his meaning and, at the same time, the
fear and anguish of such a comprehension. The count spoke at last, and
said:

"Who are you, monsieur?"

"I? The chevalier Floriani, whom you met at Palermo, and whom you have
been gracious enough to invite to your house on several occasions."

"Then what does this story mean?"

"Oh! nothing at all! It is simply a pastime, so far as I am concerned. I
endeavor to depict the pleasure that Henriette's son, if he still lives,
would have in telling you that he was t