diplomatists, and, while they are yet rubbing their weak eyes and
crying out with pain, we shall quietly draw our little fish into our
net, and take her home without opposition!"

"And if the fish will not go into the net?"

"It must go in!" impatiently cried Orloff. "Bah! have I at the right
time succeeded in towing our emperor, God bless him! into eternity, and
shall I doubt in the fulness of time of enclosing this beautiful child
in my arms! Look at me, Stephano--what is wanting for it in me? Are not
all these beautiful women of Rome enraptured with the Russian Hercules?
How, then, can it be that a woman of my own country can withstand me?
The preliminaries are the main thing, and if we only had some one to
prepare her for my appearance, all would then go well. And such a one we
will find, thanks to our rubles! But enough of politics for the present,
Stephano. Call my valet. It is time for my toilet, and that is a very
important affair."

CORILLA

Corilla was alone. Uneasy, full of stormy thoughts, she impetuously
walked back and forth, occasionally uttering single passionate
exclamations, then again thoughtfully staring at vacancy before her. She
was a full-blooded, warm Italian woman, that will neither love nor hate
with the whole soul, and nourishes both feelings in her bosom with equal
strength and with equal warmth. But, in her, hatred exhaled as quickly
as love; it was to her only the champagne-foam of life, which she sipped
for the purpose of a slight intoxication--as in her intoxication only
did she feel herself a poetess, and in a condition for improvisation.

"I must at any rate be in love," said she, "else I should lose my poetic
fame. With cool blood and a tranquil mind there is no improvising and
poetizing. With me all must be stirring and flaming, every nerve of my
being must glow and tremble, the blood must flash like fire through my
veins, and the most glowing wishes and ardent longings, be it love or
be it hate, must be stirring within me in order to poetize successfully.
And this cannot be comprehended by delicate and discreet people; this
low Roman populace even venture to call me a coquette, only because I
constantly need a new glow, and because I constantly seek new emotions
and new inspirations for my muse."

Love, then, for the improvisatrice Corilla, was nothing more than a
strong wine with which she refreshed and strengthened her fatigued
poetic powers for renewed exertions; it w