tion of another, was as indignant at it as at some unpardonable
backsliding, some inexcusable and inexplicable perfidy. He was quite
unable to understand how Elena could have committed such a crime; he
denied her all possibility of justification, and rejected the hypothesis
of some secret and dire necessity having driven her to sudden flight. He
could see nothing but the bare brutal fact, its baseness, its
vulgarity--above all its vulgarity, gross, manifest, odious, without one
extenuating circumstance. In short, the whole matter reduced itself to
this: a passion which was apparently sincere, which they had vowed was
profound and inextinguishable, had been broken off for a question of
money, for material interests, for a commercial transaction.

'Oh, you are ungrateful! What do you know of all that has happened, of
all I have suffered!'

Elena's words recurred to him with everything else she had said, from
beginning to end of their interview--her words of fondness, her offer of
sisterly affection, all her sentimental phrases. And he remembered, too,
the tears that had dimmed her eyes, her changes of countenance, her
tremors, her choking voice when she said good-bye, and he laid the roses
in her lap. 'But why had she ever consented to come? Why play this part,
call up all these emotions, arrange this comedy? Why?

By this time he had reached the top of the steps, and found himself in
the deserted piazza. Suddenly the beauty of the night filled him with a
vague but desperate yearning towards some unknown good. The image of
Maria Ferres flashed across his mind; his heart beat fast, he thought of
what it would be to hold her hands in his, to lean his head upon her
breast, to feel that she was consoling him without words, by her pity
alone. This longing for pity, for a refuge, was like the last struggle
of a soul that will not be content to perish. He bent his head and
entered the house without turning again to look at the night.

Terenzio was waiting up for him and followed him to the bedroom, where
there was a fire.

'Will the Signor Conte go to bed at once?' he asked.

'No, Terenzio, bring me some tea,' replied his master, sitting down
before the fire and stretching out his hands to the blaze.

He was shivering all over with a little nervous tremor.

'The Signor Conte is cold?' asked Terenzio, hastening with affectionate
interest to stir up the fire and put on fresh logs.

He was an old servant of the house of Sp