"And the letter, godmother,—the letter?"
"Was from Raphael, who was dying."
"From Raphael?"
"Yes, and contained these words, which seemed to me written in characters of blood:—"
"'I have been in Florence for two days. I know all. This very night I saw Brévannes descending from your balcony; after which you closed the window. I fought with him instantly, as we both agreed. I sought death, and he has given it to me. Be thou accursed! Osorio will tell you when you return to Venice. Conceal from my mother. My sight is——'
"And nothing more," added Madame de Hansfeld, with agonising expression, "nothing but some shapeless letters."
"What a mystery!" said Iris, clasping her hands. "Who then could have appeared at your chamber-window?"
"Have I not told you that my aunt had occupied the chamber that very evening which I had before slept in? No doubt, Charles de Brévannes had obtained a rendezvous from her in order to serve his wicked designs, you will see how. She is my height—dark as I am; and thus was Raphael fatally deceived."
"Oh! how horrible!"
"After I had read this letter I was almost mad. I believed I was in a dream. Osorio told me the rest. Raphael, on his return from a voyage to Constantinople, had reached Venice. He only passed a day in that city, but, misled by some abominable calumny which had reached thither from Florence, he left that city suddenly with Osorio, to whom he said,—