I chose voluntarily,
but without reflection. I wronged her, and am punished."

Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon continued, "Young, and with
a heart untouched, I married a princess about ten years older than
myself, of eccentric habits and bad temper. She treated me as an
inferior. She dissipated the fortune hoarded up with so much care by
my parents, and yet was ashamed on account of my origin to be called
by my name. Happily for me, she was fond of visiting and amusements.
Otherwise, to escape from her, I might have become a gambler, or
worse; but, to avoid meeting her, I remained at home--for there she
seldom was. At first from ennui, but afterward from real delight in
the occupation, I gave myself up to study. Reading formed my mind and
heart. I became a changed being. Some months ago my father died, my
sister went to Lithuania, whilst my mother, in her old age, and with
her ideas, was quite incapable of understanding my sorrow. So when my
wife went to the baths for the benefit of her ruined health, I came
here in the hope of meeting with some of my former friends--I saw
you--"

Giovanna blushed like one detected; but speedily recovering herself,
asked with calm pleasantry, "Surely you do not number _me_ among your
former friends?"

"I know not. I have been bewildered. It is strange; but from the
moment that I saw you at Count Selka's, a powerful instinct of love
overcame me; not a new feeling; but as if some latent, long-hid,
undeveloped sentiment had suddenly burst forth into an uncontrollable
passion. I love, I adore you. I--"

The Prima Donna interrupted him--not with speech, but with a look
which awed, which chilled him. Pride, scorn, irony sat in her smile.
Satire darted from her eyes. After a pause, she repeated slowly and
pointedly, "Love _me_, Count Roszynski?"

"Such is my destiny," he replied. "Nor, despite your scorn, will I
struggle against it. I feel it is my fate ever to love you; I fear it
is my fate never to be loved by you. It is dreadful."

Giovanna witnessed the Count's emotion with sadness. "To have," she
said mournfully, "one's first, pure, ardent, passionate affection
unrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is indeed a bitterness, almost
equal to that of death."

She made a strong effort to conceal her emotion. Indeed she controlled
it so well as to speak the rest with a sort of gayety.

"You have at least been candid, Count Roszynski; I will imitate you
by telling a little hist