She sank wearily into a luxurious chair, and covered her face with her hands.
She sat for a long time motionless, and only the panting breath of her heaving bosom interrupted the silence of the darkened room.
Then again she sprang up, and with trembling lips and vehement voice she cried,--
"But she--who tore him from me--that fine lady, who from her cradle has enjoyed every happiness life can afford, who basks in the golden sunshine of an admiring world, who has all--all, that is denied me--shall she enjoy the love that I have lost?"
She hastily opened a small casket of incrusted ebony, and took out a photograph in the form of a carte-de-visite.
She regarded it long with glowing looks.
"What foolish, inexpressive features!" she cried; "how lukewarm, how wearisome must be her love. Can she make him happy--he, who has known the passion of my heart--who has learnt what love is?"
And she spasmodically seized the likeness and crushed it together.
The bell of the entrance hall aroused her from her stormy dreams; she threw the crumpled photograph hastily back into the casket, and her face resumed its usual calm expression.
The servant announced Count Rivero, who immediately entered, faultlessly elegant as ever, cold, calm, and friendly; the smile of the man of the world upon his lips.