ushed away his
plate, and ate no more. On the other hand (though generally the most
temperate of men) he drank a great deal of wine, both at dinner and
after. In the evening, he made so many mistakes in playing cards with my
aunt, that she dismissed him from the game in disgrace. He sat in a
corner for the rest of the time, pretending to listen while I was playing
the piano--really lost to me and my music; buried, fathoms deep, in some
uneasy thoughts of his own.

When he took his leave, he whispered these words in my ear; anxiously
pressing my hand while he spoke:

"I must see you alone to-morrow, before Grosse comes. Can you manage it?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"At the stairs on the cliff, at eleven o'clock."

On that, he left me. But one question has pursued me ever since. Does
Oscar know the writer of the mysterious letter? I firmly believe he does.
To-morrow will prove whether I am right or wrong. How I long for
to-morrow to come!

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH

Lucilla's Journal, continued

_September_ 4th.

I MARK this day as one of the saddest days of my life. Oscar has shown
Madame Pratolungo to me, in her true colors. He has reasoned out this
miserable matter with a plainness which it is impossible for me to
resist. I have thrown away my love and my confidence on a false woman:
there is no sense of honor, no feeling of gratitude or of delicacy in her
nature. And I once thought her--it sickens me to recall it! I will see
her no more.

[Note.--Did it ever occur to you to be obliged to copy out, with your own
hand, this sort of opinion of your own character? I can recommend the
sensation produced as something quite new, and the temptation to add a
line or two on your own account to be as nearly as possible beyond mortal
resistance.--P.]

Oscar and I met at the stairs, at eleven o'clock, as we had arranged.

He took me to the west pier. At that hour of the morning (excepting a few
sailors who paid no heed to us) the place was a solitude. It was one of
the loveliest days of the season. When we were tired of pacing to and
fro, we could sit down under the mellow sunshine, and enjoy the balmy sea
air. In that pure light, with all those lovely colors about us, there was
something, to my mind, horribly and shamefully out of place in the talk
that engrossed us--talk that still turned, hour after hour, on nothing
but plots and lies, cruelty, ingratitude, and deceit!

I managed to ask my first question so as to