CHAPTER XIII.

Isaura was seated beside the Venosta,--to whom, of late, she seemed
to cling with greater fondness than ever,--working at some piece of
embroidery--a labour from which she had been estranged for years; but
now she had taken writing, reading, music, into passionate disgust.
Isaura was thus seated, silently intent upon her work, and the Venosta
in full talk, when the servant announced Madame Rameau.

The name startled both; the Venosta had never heard that the poet had
a mother living, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that Madame
Rameau must be a wife he had hitherto kept unrevealed. And when a woman,
still very handsome, with a countenance grave and sad, entered the
salon, the Venosta murmured, "The husband's perfidy reveals itself on
a wife's face," and took out her handkerchief in preparation for
sympathising tears.

"Mademoiselle," said the visitor, halting, with eyes fixed on Isaura.
"Pardon my intrusion-my son has the honour to be known to you. Every one
who knows him must share in my sorrow--so young--so promising, and in
such danger--my poor boy!" Madame Rameau stopped abruptly. Her tears
forced their way--she turned aside to conceal them.

In her twofold condition of being--womanhood and genius--Isaura was
too largely endowed with that quickness of sympathy which distinguishes
woman from man, and genius from talent, not to be wondrously susceptible
to pity.

Already she had wound her arm round the grieving mother--already drawn
her to the seat from which she herself had risen--and bending over her
had said some words--true, conventional enough in themselves,--but cooed
forth in a voice the softest I ever expect to hear, save in dreams, on
this side of the grave.

Madame Rameau swept her hand over her eyes, glanced round the room, and
noticing the Venosta in dressing-robe and slippers, staring with those
Italian eyes, in seeming so quietly innocent, in reality so searchingly
shrewd, she whispered pleadingly, "May I speak to you a few minutes
alone?" This was not a request that Isaura could refuse, though she was
embarrassed and troubled by the surmise of Madame Rameau's object in
asking it; accordingly she led her visitor into the adjoining room, and
making an apologetic sign to the Venosta, closed the door.

CHAPTER XIV.

When they were alone, Madame Rameau took Isaura's hand in both her
own, and, gazing wistfully into her face, said, "No wonder you are so
loved--your