; let us leave him. I pushed indifference so far as to
receive them together in my house. This circumstance kept that most
perspicacious of all societies, the great world of Paris, ignorant of
the affair. Though intoxicated with pride, Gennaro was compelled to
dissimulate; and he did it admirably. But violent passions will have
their freedom at any cost. Before the end of the year, Beatrix whispered
in my ear one evening: 'My dear Felicite, I start to-morrow for Italy
with Conti.' I was not surprised; she regarded herself as united for
life to Gennaro, and she suffered from the restraints imposed upon her;
she escaped one evil by rushing into a greater. Conti was wild with
happiness,--the happiness of vanity alone. 'That's what it is to love
truly,' he said to me. 'How many women are there who would sacrifice
their lives, their fortune, their reputation?'--'Yes, she loves you,' I
replied, 'but you do not love her.' He was furious, and made me a scene;
he stormed, he declaimed, he depicted his love, declaring that he had
never supposed it possible to love as much. I remained impassible,
and lent him money for his journey, which, being unexpected, found him
unprepared. Beatrix left a letter for her husband and started the next
day for Italy. There she has remained two years; she has written to me
several times, and her letters are enchanting. The poor child attaches
herself to me as the only woman who will comprehend her. She says she
adores me. Want of money has compelled Gennaro to accept an offer to
write a French opera; he does not find in Italy the pecuniary gains
which composers obtain in Paris. Here's the letter I received yesterday
from Beatrix. Take it and read it; you can now understand it,--that is,
if it is possible, at your age, to analyze the things of the heart."

So saying, she held out the letter to him.

At this moment Claude Vignon entered the room. At his unexpected
apparition Calyste and Felicite were both silent for a moment,--she from
surprise, he from a vague uneasiness. The vast forehead, broad and high,
of the new-comer, who was bald at the age of thirty-seven, now seemed
darkened by annoyance. His firm, judicial mouth expressed a habit of
chilling sarcasm. Claude Vignon is imposing, in spite of the precocious
deteriorations of a face once magnificent, and now grown haggard.
Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five he strongly resembled the
divine Raffaelle. But his nose, that feature of the