said.
He kissed me, and told me to cheer up: he had a plan for Eugen, which,
he believed, would set all right again.

"In that very moment some one had asked to see him. It was a clerk from
the bank with a check which they had cashed the day before. Had my
husband signed it? I saw him look at it for a moment. Then he sent the
man away, saying that he was then busy and would communicate with him.
Then he showed me the check. It was payable to the bearer, and across
the back was written 'Vittoria von Rothenfels.'

"You must bear in mind that Eugen was living in his own house, in
another quarter of the town. My husband sent the check to him, with a
brief inquiry as to whether he knew anything about it. Then he went out:
he had an appointment, and when he returned he found a letter from
Eugen. It was not long: it was burned into my heart, and I have never
forgotten a syllable of it. It was:

"'I return the check. I am guilty. I relieve you of all further
responsibility about me. It is evident that I am not fit for my
position. I leave this place forever, taking the boy with me.
Vittoria does not seem to care about having him. Will you look
after her? Do not let her starve in punishment for my sin. For
me--I leave you forever.

"'EUGEN.'

"That was the letter. _Ei! mein Gott!_ Oh, it is hideous, child, to find
that those in whom you believed so intensely are bad--rotten to the
core. I had loved Eugen, he had made a sunshine in my not very cheerful
life. His coming was a joy to me, his going away a sorrow. It made
everything so much blacker when the truth came out. Of course the matter
was hushed up.

"My husband took immediate steps about it. Soon afterward we came here;
Vittoria with us. Poor girl! Poor girl! She did nothing but weep and
wring her hands, moan and lament and wonder why she had ever been born,
and at last she died of decline--that is to say, they called it decline,
but it was really a broken heart. That is the story--a black chronicle,
is it not? You know about Sigmund's coming here. My husband remembered
that he was heir to our name, and we were in a measure responsible for
him. Eugen had taken the name of a distant family connection on his
mother's side--she had French blood in her veins--Courvoisier. Now you
know all, my child--he is not good. Do not trust him."

I was silent. My heart burned; my tongue longed to utter ardent words,
but I remember