s, when
Luigi tore the curtains apart, and sprang on her arm like a cat. Before
her shrieks could bring succour, Luigi was bounding across the court
with the letter in his possession. A dreadful hug awaited him; his
pockets were ransacked, and he was pitched aching into the street. Jacob
Baumwalder Feckelwitz went straightway under a gas-lamp, where he read
the address of the letter to Countess d'Isorella. He doubted; he had
a half-desire to tear the letter open. But a rumour of the attack upon
Irma had spread among the domestics and Jacob prudently went up to his
mistress. The duchess was sitting with Laura. She received the letter,
eyed: it all over, and held it to a candle.

Laura's head was bent in dark meditation. The sudden increase of light
aroused her, and she asked, "What is that?"

"A letter from Countess Anna to Countess d'Isorella," said the duchess.

"Burnt!" Laura screamed.

"It's only fair," the duchess remarked.

"From her to that woman! It may be priceless. Stop! Let me see what
remains. Amalia! are you mad? Oh! you false friend. I would have
sacrificed my right hand to see it."

"Try and love me still," said the duchess, letting her take one unburnt
corner, and crumble the black tissuey fragments to smut in her hands.

There was no writing; the unburnt corner of the letter was a blank.

Laura fooled the wretched ashes between her palms. "Good-night," she
said. "Your face will be of this colour to me, my dear, for long."

"I cannot behave disgracefully, even to keep your love, my beloved,"
said the duchess.

"You cannot betray a German, you mean," Laura retorted. "You could let a
spy into the house."

"That was a childish matter--merely to satisfy a whim."

"I say you could let a spy into the house. Who is to know where the
scruples of you women begin? I would have given my jewels, my head, my
husband's sword, for a sight of that letter. I swear that it concerns
us. Yes, us. You are a false friend. Fish-blooded creature! may it be a
year before I look on you again. Hide among your miserable set!"

"Judge me when you are cooler, dearest," said the duchess, seeking to
detain the impetuous sister of her affection by the sweeping skirts; but
Laura spurned her touch, and went from her.

Irma drove to Countess d'Isorella's. Violetta was abed, and lay fair
and placid as a Titian Venus, while Irma sputtered out her tale, with
intermittent sobs. She rose upon her elbow, and planting it in her
pi