is written
instinctively in the brain of the man of letters when he is particularly
fond of literature.

At times it assumes a written form, and it is the most marked of
professional distortions, the most unintelligible to the illiterate, who
think waveringly and who do not, happily for them, suffer the continual
servitude to precision of word and to too conscientious thought.

"Yes; poor, charming Alba!" he repeated to himself. "How unfortunate
that the marriage with Countess Gorka's brother could not have been
arranged four months ago. Connection with the family of her mother's
lover would be tolerably immoral! But she would at least have had less
chance of ever knowing it; and the convenient combination by which the
mother has caused her to form a friendship with that wife in order the
better to blind the two, would have bordered a little more on propriety.
To-day Alba would be Lady Ardrahan, leading a prosaic English life,
instead of being united to some imbecile whom they will find for her
here or elsewhere. She will then deceive him as her mother deceived the
late Steno--with me, perhaps, in remembrance of our pure intimacy of
to-day. That would be too sad! Do not let us think of it! It is the
future, of the existence of which we are ignorant, while we do know that
the present exists and that it has all rights. I owe to the Contessina
my best impressions of Rome, to the vision of her loveliness in this
scene of so grand a past. And this is a sensation which is enjoyable; to
visit the Palais Castagna with the adorable creature upon whom rests the
menace of a drama. To enjoy the Countess Steno's kindness, otherwise
the house would not have that tone and I would never have obtained the
little one's friendship. To rejoice that Ardea is a fool, that he has
lost his fortune on the Bourse, and that the syndicate of his creditors,
presided over by Monsieur Ancona, has laid hands upon his palace. For,
otherwise, I should not have ascended the steps of this papal staircase,
nor have seen this debris of Grecian sarcophagi fitted into the walls,
and this garden of so intense a green. As for Gorka, he may have
returned for thirty-six other reasons than jealousy, and Montfanon is
right: Caterina is cunning enough to inveigle both the painter and him.
She will make Maitland believe that she received Gorka for the sake of
Madame Gorka, and to prevent him from ruining that excellent woman at
gaming. She will tell Boleslas that t