ecisive moment. She appeared on the threshold of the French window,
surprised and delighted, just in the measure she conformably should be.
Her fair complexion, which the slightest emotion tinged with carmine,
was bewitchingly pink. Not a quiver of her long lashes veiled her deep
blue eyes, which gleamed brightly. With her smile, which exhibited her
lovely teeth, the color of the large pearls which were twined about
her neck, with the emeralds in her fair hair, with her fine shoulders
displayed by the slope of her white corsage, with her delicate waist,
with the splendor of her arms from which she had removed the gloves
to yield them to the caresses of Maitland, and which gleamed with more
emeralds, with her carriage marked by a certain haughtiness, she was
truly a woman of another age, the sister of those radiant princesses
whom the painters of Venice evoke beneath the marble porticoes, among
apostles and martyrs. She advanced to Maud Gorka, whom she embraced
affectionately, then, pressing Boleslas's hand, she said in a voice so
warm, in which at times there were deep tones, softened by the habitual
use of the caressing dialect of the lagoon:

"What a surprise! And you could not come to dine with us? Well, sit
down, both of you, and relate to me the Odyssey of the traveller," and,
turning toward Maitland, who had followed her into the salon with the
insolent composure of a giant and of a lover:

"Be kind, my little Linco, and fetch me my fan and my gloves, which I
left on the couch."

At that moment Dorsenne, who had only one fear, that of meeting Gorka's
eyes--he could not have borne their glance--was again by the side of
Alba Steno. The young girl's face, just now so troubled, was radiant. It
seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from the pretty Contessina's
mind.

"Poor child," thought the writer, "she would not think her mother could
be so calm were she guilty. The Countess's manner is the reply to the
anonymous letter. Have they written all to her? My God! Who can it be?"

And he fell into a deep revery, interrupted only by the hum of the
conversation, in which he did not participate. It would have satisfied
him had he observed, instead of meditated, that the truth with regard to
the author of the anonymous letters might have become clear to him, as
clear as the courage of Madame Steno in meeting danger--as the blind
confidence of Madame Gorka--as the disdainful imperturbability of
Maitland before his r