w notes of _Pria che spunti_, the countess
entered her room. No one had ever heard her sing; her muteness had
called forth the wildest explanations. She had promised her first lover,
so it was said, who had been held captive by her talent, and whose
jealousy over her stretched beyond his grave, that she would never allow
others to experience a happiness that he wished to be his and his alone.

"I exerted every power of my soul to catch the sounds. Higher and higher
rose the notes; Foedora's life seemed to dilate within her; her throat
poured forth all its richest tones; something well-nigh divine entered
into the melody. There was a bright purity and clearness of tone in the
countess' voice, a thrilling harmony which reached the heart and stirred
its pulses. Musicians are seldom unemotional; a woman who could sing
like that must know how to love indeed. Her beautiful voice made one
more puzzle in a woman mysterious enough before. I beheld her then, as
plainly as I see you at this moment. She seemed to listen to herself, to
experience a secret rapture of her own; she felt, as it were, an ecstasy
like that of love.

"She stood before the hearth during the execution of the principal theme
of the _rondo_; and when she ceased her face changed. She looked tired;
her features seemed to alter. She had laid the mask aside; her part as
an actress was over. Yet the faded look that came over her beautiful
face, a result either of this performance or of the evening's fatigues,
had its charms, too.

"'This is her real self,' I thought.

"She set her foot on a bronze bar of the fender as if to warm it, took
off her gloves, and drew over her head the gold chain from which her
bejeweled scent-bottle hung. It gave me a quite indescribable pleasure
to watch the feline grace of every movement; the supple grace a cat
displays as it adjusts its toilette in the sun. She looked at herself
in the mirror and said aloud ill-humoredly--'I did not look well this
evening, my complexion is going with alarming rapidity; perhaps I
ought to keep earlier hours, and give up this life of dissipation. Does
Justine mean to trifle with me?' She rang again; her maid hurried in.
Where she had been I cannot tell; she came in by a secret staircase.
I was anxious to make a study of her. I had lodged accusations, in
my romantic imaginings, against this invisible waiting-woman, a tall,
well-made brunette.

"'Did madame ring?'

"'Yes, twice,' answered Foedora;