p while she
had her hand up; she struck with no force; and she has since been
inanimate, I hear. The doctor says that a spasm of the heart seized her
when she was about to strike. It has been shaken--I am not sure that he
does not say displaced, or unseated--by some one of her black tempers.
She shot Rinaldo Guidascarpi dead. Perhaps it was that. I am informed
that she worshipped the poor boy, and has been like a trapped she-wolf
since she did it. In some way she associated our darling with Rinaldo's
death, like the brute she is. The ostensible ground for her futile bit of
devilishness was that she fancied Sandra to have betrayed Barto Rizzo,
her husband, into the hands of the polizia. He wrote to the Countess
Alessandra--such a letter!--a curiosity!--he must see her and
cross-examine her to satisfy himself that she was a true patriot, &c. You
know the style: we neither of us like it. Sandra was waiting to receive
him when they pounced on him by the door. Next day the woman struck at
her. Decidedly a handsome woman. She is the exact contrast to the
Countess Violetta in face, in everything. Heart-disease will certainly
never affect that pretty spy! But, mark," pursued Laura, warming, "when
Carlo arrived, tears, penitence, heaps of self-accusations: he had been
unkind to her even on Lake Orta, where they passed their golden month; he
had neglected her at Turin; he had spoken angry words in Milan; in fact,
he had misused his treasure, and begged pardon;--'If you please, my poor
bleeding angel, I am sorry. But do not, I entreat, distract me with
petitions of any sort, though I will perform anything earthly to satisfy
you. Be a good little boat in the wake of the big ship. I will look over
at you, and chirrup now and then to you, my dearest, when I am not
engaged in piloting extraordinary.'--Very well; I do not mean to sneer at
the unhappy boy, Merthyr; I love him; he was my husband's brother in
arms; the sweetest lad ever seen. He is in the season of faults. He must
command; he must be a chief; he fancies he can intrigue poor thing! It
will pass. And so will the hour to be forward to Rome. But I call your
attention to this: when he heard of the dagger--I have it from Colonel
Corte, who was with him at the time in Turin--he cried out Violetta
d'Isorella's name. Why? After he had buried his head an hour on Sandra's
pillow, he went straight to Countess d'Isorella, and was absent till
night. The woman is hideous to me. No; don't