"It was then you had that long nervous attack which so nearly killed you."
"And during which you gave me so many proofs of your devotion and affection; and from that time, Iris, I loved you like a sisterlike a daughter."
Iris took her godmother's hand and silently placed it to her lips.
"My aunt Vasari," continued Paula, "went to Florence to attend to a lawsuit she had there. She went out every day, being able, as she thought, to influence her judges. In the evening we went out to walk, and there I frequently met a Frenchman named M. Charles de Brévannes. He was very soon my constant shadow; his pursuit of me became incessant and troublesome, and from that time my indifference was changed to aversion."
"Was he a man likely to cause such a sentiment?" "Why do you ask?" inquired the princess, scrutinising Iris's features; then adding, "You were so young then, you could not have remarked. Yes, at your age, that is natural. You recollect my cousin, Raphael Monti, the son of my father's brother?"
Iris imperceptibly contracted her eyebrows, and replied in a short manner,—
"Yes; each time he returned from sea he came to pass his leisure at Venice. Isn't he in the East? Have you had any news of him lately? When we left Italy his mother was becoming very anxious about his absence."
"He is dead," said Madame de Hansfeld, with desperate calmness.
"Raphael dead!" exclaimed Iris, with feigned astonishment.
"Charles de Brévannes killed him."