came. His memories of his serious illness were vague
and indistinct, but they were all horrible. He only recalled the
beginning very clearly, how he had glanced through the newspaper article
and had dropped it in sudden and overwhelming despair; and then, how he
had roused himself and had felt in the drawer for his revolver; not
finding it, he had lost consciousness just as he realised that even that
means of escape from life had been taken from him. He remembered having
felt as if something broke in his brain, though he knew that he was not
dying.

After that, fragments of his ravings came back to him with the still
vivid recollection of awful pain, of monstrous darkness, of lurid
lights, of hideous beings glaring and gnashing their jagged teeth at
him, and of a continual discordant noise of voices that had run all
through his delirium like the crying out and moaning of many creatures
in agony. It was no wonder that he compared what he remembered of his
sufferings to hell itself.

And now that he was alive, of what use was life to him? His honour was
cleared, indeed, for Lamberti had taken care of that. Lamberti had
burned the papers before his eyes after telling him how Princess
Anatolie had died, and had read him the paragraph which Baron Goldbirn
had caused to be inserted in the _Figaro_. The Princess was dead, and
Monsieur Leroy would probably never trouble any one again. When he had
squandered what she had left him, he would probably get a living as a
medium in Vienna. Guido knew the secret of the tie that bound him to the
Princess, but was quite sure that the proud old woman had never let him
guess it himself, in spite of her doting affection for him. Those of her
family who knew it would not tell him, of all people, and if Monsieur
Leroy ever begged money of Guido he would not present himself as an
unfortunate cousin.

Guido foresaw no difficulties in the future, but he anticipated no
happiness, and his life stretched before him, colourless, blank, and
idle.

Since his delirium had ceased, he had not once spoken of Cecilia, and
Lamberti began to fear that he would not allude to her for a long time.
That did not make it easier to tell him the story he must hear, and the
time had come when he must hear it, come what might, lest he should ever
think that he had been intentionally kept in ignorance of the truth.
Lamberti was glad when he spoke of Cecilia as a Beatrice who would never
appear to lead him further