y thoughts of bitterness. She
wondered: Does Lydia suspect them, too? But was it possible that her
mother, whom she knew to be so generous, so magnanimous, so kind, could
have that smile of sovereign tranquillity with such secrets in her
heart? Was it possible that she could have betrayed Maud for months and
months with the same light of joy in her eyes?

"Come," said Julien, stopping himself suddenly in the midst of a speech,
in which he had related two or three literary anecdotes. "Instead of
listening to your friend Dorsenne, little Countess, you are following
several blue devils flying through the room."

"They would fly, in any case," replied Alba, who, pointing to Fanny
Hafner and Prince d'Ardea seated on a couch, continued: "Has what I told
you a few weeks since been realized? You do not know all the irony of
it. You have not assisted, as I did the day before yesterday, at the
poor girl's baptism."

"It is true," replied Julien, "you were godmother. I dreamed of Leo
Thirteenth as godfather, with a princess of the house of Bourbon as
godmother. Hafner's triumph would have been complete!"

"He had to content himself with his ambassador and your servant,"
replied Alba with a faint smile, which was speedily converted into
an expression of bitterness. "Are you satisfied with your pupil?" she
added. "I am progressing.... I laugh--when I wish to weep.... But you
yourself would not have laughed had you seen the fervor of charming
Fanny. She was the picture of blissful faith. Do not scoff at her."

"And where did the ceremony take place?" asked Dorsenne, obeying the
almost suppliant injunction.

"In the chapel of the Dames du Cenacle."

"I know the place," replied the novelist, "one of the most beautiful
corners of Rome! It is in the old Palais Piancini, a large mansion
almost opposite the 'Calcographie Royale', where they sell those
fantastic etchings of the great Piranese, those dungeons and those ruins
of so intense a poesy! It is the Gaya of stone. There is a garden on the
terrace. And to ascend to the chapel one follows a winding staircase, an
incline without steps, and one meets nuns in violet gowns, with faces
so delicate in the white framework of their bonnets. In short, an ideal
retreat for one of my heroines. My old friend Montfanon took me there.
As we ascended to that tower, six weeks ago, we heard the shrill voices
of ten little girls, singing: 'Questo cuor tu la vedrai'. It was a
procession of catech