ely by the gossiping, the origin of
which was a mystery. One was the innkeeper of the 'Tempo Perso', whose
simple 'bettola' became, during those few days, a veritable place of
pilgrimage, and who sold a quantity of wine and numbers of fresh eggs.
The other was Dorsenne's publisher, of whom the Roman booksellers ordered
several hundred volumes.

"If I had had that duel in Paris," said the novelist to Mademoiselle
Steno, relating to her the unforeseen result, "I should perhaps have at
length known the intoxication of the thirtieth edition."

It was a few days after the departure of the Gorkas that he jested thus,
at a large dinner of twenty-four covers, given at Villa Steno in honor of
Peppino Ardea and Fanny Hafner. Reestablished in the Countess's favor
since his duel, he had again become a frequenter of her house, so much
the more assiduous as the increasing melancholy of Alba interested him
greatly. The enigma of the young girl's character redoubled that interest
at each visit in such a degree that, notwithstanding the heat, already
beginning, of the dangerous Roman summer, he constantly deferred his
return to Paris until the morrow. What had she guessed in consequence of
the encounter, the details of which she had asked of him with an emotion
scarcely hidden in her eyes of a blue as clear, as transparent, as
impenetrable at the same time, as the water of certain Alpine lakes at
the foot of the glaciers. He thought he was doing right in corroborating
the story of Boleslas Gorka's madness, which he knew better than any one
else to be false. But was it not the surest means of exempting Madame
Steno from connection with the affair? Why had he seen Alba's beautiful
eyes veiled with a sadness inexplicable, as if he had just given her
another blow? He did not know that since the day on which the word
insanity had been uttered before her relative to Maud's husband, the
Contessina was the victim of a reasoning as simple as irrefutable.

"If Boleslas be mad, as they say," said Alba, "why does Maud, whom I know
to be so just and who loves me so dearly, attribute to my mother the
responsibility of this duel, to the point of breaking with me thus, and
of leaving without a line of explanation?.... No.... There is something
else.".... The nature of the "something else" the young girl
comprehended, on recalling her mother's face during the perusal of Maud's
letter. During the ten days following that scene, she saw constantly
before