th huge bouquets, would step forward to the
footlights and make her bow of acknowledgment, under a deluge of tinsel
and flowers. One medallion bore the portrait of the venerable don Pedro
of Brazil, the artist-emperor, who paid tribute to the singer in a
greeting written in diamonds. Gem-incrusted frames of gold spoke of
enthusiasts who perhaps had begun by desiring the woman to resign
themselves in the end to admiration for the artist. Here was a
collection of illuminated diplomas from charitable societies thanking
her for assistance at benefits. Queen Victoria of England had given her
a fan with an autograph dated from a concert at Windsor Castle. From
Isabel II came a royal bracelet, as a souvenir of various evenings at
the Castilla Palace in Paris. Millionaires, princes, grand-dukes,
presidents of Spanish-American republics, had left a whole museum of
costly trinkets at her feet. Characteristic of adorers from the United
States, where people always temper enthusiasm with usefulness, were a
number of portfolios, their bindings much worn by time, containing
railroad shares, land titles, stocks in enterprises of varying
stability, suggesting the rambles of the American promotor from the
prairies of Canada to the pampas of the Argentine.

In the presence of all the trophies that the arrogant Valkyrie had
gathered in on her triumphal passage through the world, Rafael felt
pride, first of all, at being friends with such a woman; but at the same
time a sense of his own insignificance, exaggerating, if anything, the
difference that separated them. How in the world had he ever dared make
love to a person like Leonora Brunna?

Finally came the most interesting, the most intimate of all her
treasures--an album which she allowed him hurriedly to glimpse through,
forbidding him, however, even to look at certain of the pages. It was a
volume modestly bound in dark leather with silver clasps; but Rafael
gazed upon it as on a wonderful fetish, and with all the awe-struck
adoration inspired by great names. Kings and emperors were the least
among the celebrities who had knelt in homage before the goddess. The
overshadowing geniuses of art were there, dedicating a word of
affection, a line of verse, a bar of music, to the beautiful songstress.
Rafael stared in open-mouthed wonderment at the signatures of the old
Verdi and of Boito. Then came the younger masters, of the new Italian
school, noisy and triumphant with the clamor of art b