ies which serve as
confluents for every nation. It is sufficient to convince one's self of
it, to have heard a Venetian treat of the Slavs as 'Cziavoni', and the
Levantines as 'Gregugni'.

Madame Steno, in those letters she had written with all the familiarity
and all the liberty of passion, never called Lydia anything but La
Morettina, and by a very strange illogicalness never was the name of the
brother of La Morettina mentioned without a formula of friendship. As the
mistress treated Florent in that manner, it must be that she apprehended
no hostility on the part of her lover's brother-in-law. Lydia understood
it only too well, as well as the fresh proof of Florent's sentiments for
Lincoln. Once more he gave precedence to the friend over the sister, and
on what an occasion! The most secret wounds in her inmost being bled as
she read. The success of Alba's portrait, which promised to be a
masterpiece, ended by precipitating her into a fierce and abominable
action. She resolved to denounce Madame Steno's new love to the betrayed
lover, and she wrote the twelve letters, wisely calculated and graduated,
which had indeed determined Gorka's return. His return had even been
delayed too long to suit the relative of Iago, who had decided to aim at
Madame Steno through Alba by a still more criminal denunciation. Lydia
was in that state of exasperation in which the vilest weapons seem the
best, and she included innocent Alba in her hatred for Maitland, on
account of the portrait, a turn of sentiment which will show that it was
envy by which that soul was poisoned above all. Ah, what bitter delight
the simultaneous success of that double infamy had procured for her! What
savage joy, mingled with bitterness and ecstacy, had been hers the day
before, on witnessing the nervousness of poor Alba and the suppressed
fury of Boleslas!

In her mind she had seen Maitland provoked by the rival whom she knew to
be as adroit with the sword as with the pistol. She would not have been
the great-grandchild of a slave of Louisiana, if she had not combined
with the natural energy of her hatreds a considerable amount of
superstition. A fortune-teller had once foretold, from the lines in her
palm, that she would cause the violent death of some person. "It will be
he," she had thought, glancing at her husband with a horrible tremor of
hope.... And now she had the proof, the indisputable proof, that her plot
for vengeance was to terminate in the dan