“You must be a good musician,” said Bertha, “to sing a part so well that is not in the music.”
“I am glad to hear that there is some good in me,” he remarked, gravely. “I am a thousand times your debtor, Miss Renville, both for your singing and your compliment, which I shall never forget.”
The night for the opera came, and as the Count, with his dark, handsome face, leaned forward, from time to time, to discuss the performance with the fair-haired English girl, scores of opera-glasses were turned in their direction. Count Napier Mont d’Oro had scored the point for which he had been working so long—he had been seen in public with the beautiful woman whom he loved, for the time being at least, and that satisfied him.
The next day the Countess was sitting in her boudoir reading the criticisms of the opera and the performance. At the close of the article in one of the papers were some items referring to the prominent personages who were present on the opening night. Her own name caught her eye, and she read an item which caused her to clench her hands until her finger-nails almost cut into the flesh, as she exclaimed: “The villain! I was a fool to trust him.” Then she read the item again:
“It is rumored that a certain young Count, one of the jeunesse dorée, and member of a prominent Corsican family, has become greatly enamoured of a beautiful young English girl who is visiting here. They were seen together at the opera, and if what was apparent in the past is an indication of what will take place in the future, Parisian society will be adorned, at no distant date, by another of England’s fairest daughters.”
Before the Countess had recovered from the vexation which the perusal of the item had caused her, the boudoir door was suddenly opened and Bertha ran into the room. She threw herself upon her knees, buried her face in the Countess’s lap, and burst into a flood of tears.
“Why, what’s the matter, my dear?” exclaimed the Countess. “What has happened?”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” cried Bertha.
“But, really, you must,” said the Countess. “Who in my house has dared to offend you?”
“He did not mean it as an offence—they never do—but it was so unexpected—I have never given him any reason.”