“What a pity!”
Sophia gave a weary toss of the head, and Milona understood that she must cease this light jesting tone. She said—
“I am going to close all the shutters, mistress, do you need me any longer?”
“No, I am going to write. You will hear me when I retire to rest.”
Seating herself in front of the table, she took an elegant blotting-pad and began to trace, on perfumed paper, in a large masculine hand, the following lines:—
“My dear Cesare,
“Since you left me, I have not been wasting my time, nor have you, I imagine, been inactive. Let me know how your Lichtenbach affair is progressing. Here everything is going along smoothly. Our young Marcel came to-day, overflowing with enthusiasm, and surprised me singing the most plaintive songs imaginable. Milona, who was on the look-out for him, had signalled to me his approach, and I played the rôle of despair with extraordinary success. He seemed frantic with grief at seeing my tears flow. You know that I can weep at will, and that in the most seductive fashion. I led him away into the garden, and there, made him talk about himself. He is a regular child, of most disconcerting simplicity, and so frank and open that you would smile. To tell the truth, there will be no merit in triumphing over such innocence. This lamb will hold out his neck to the sacrificial knife. And we shall have our formula willingly handed over, or I am greatly mistaken. Besides, I am enjoying a delightful rest in this abandoned spot, and never suffer from ennui, even for a single moment. In the midst of such an adventurous life, it is long since I had time for reflection, and now I am astonished at the result. The joys and pleasures for which I have sacrificed everything hitherto, form, I am afraid, only one of the phases of life. There is another I did not suspect, far more seductive and beautiful. This afternoon, as I was listening to young Marcel speaking to me of his father, his mother, and sister, with such tender and delicate affection, a feeling of sadness came over me. These are all good, honest people. They are happy in a mutual love, and would be ready to undergo the greatest sacrifices for one another. And, although nothing could be simpler, more upright and monotonous than their existence, it cannot be disputed that they find happiness in it.
“It is this lamb of a Marcel, who is the scapegrace of the family. From time to time his father threatens him with his malediction, and the poor fellow is very repentant for a whole week. He comes and buries himself at Ars, like an anchorite in the desert. During his penance he works in the laboratory, eats the most ill-cooked food imaginable, and has quarrels with the manager of the works, who seems to be a disagreeable fellow to deal with. It is during these periods of repentance that the interesting discoveries on the dyeing of wools and other industrial stuffs—which, it appears, have a certain value, as he explains to me in rather too much detail for my liking—have been due.
“But, after all, he is a very fine fellow. He actually asked me how old I was! He does not imagine that I am older than himself, and I should not be astonished in the slightest, if he were to cherish the idea of marrying me. I lead him by a thread—he neither feels nor sees—on towards absolute slavery. Then, after he has delivered up to me his secret, as all the rest have done, I shall disappear. Once the mourning weeds of Mme. Vignola flung aside, I shall again become the Baroness Sophia, in which character I challenge my lover to recognize the plaintive sorrowful widow he is paying court to just now. So, you see, I am not neglecting business matters. I hope you are doing the same on your side. The little Lichtenbach heiress will be a multi-millionaire; that is well worth the trouble of whispering words of love into her ear.
“A thousand kisses, Cesare. Sempre t’amero.
“Sophia.”
She sealed the letter, took up a cigarette, and was preparing to retire to rest, when three slight taps on the shutters sent a shudder through her veins. She listened, an anxious frown on her face, and, after a moment’s interval, the taps were repeated. Opening a drawer, she seized a revolver, and, walking deliberately to the window, half opened it, and, speaking through the closed shutter, said in Italian accents—
“Who is there?”
A voice replied in muffled tones, “It is I—Hans; there is nothing to fear, Sophia.”
A slight pallor came over her face, but she placed back the revolver in the drawer, and, without replying, left the salon. On reaching the outside door she drew the bolts, and noiselessly opened the door. A tall man entered. Without the exchange of a single word, she led the way to the salon, then carefully closed the door. The man removed the felt hat which covered his head, displaying a bold, rough countenance. He was a man of athletic build, and very broad-shouldered, whilst a reddish beard covered the lower portion of his face.