At a small table in front, covered by a rich cloth, sat the heroine, dressed in a gorgeousness of apparel that mocked her misery. Beneath the gems that studded her bosom, there was supposed to be unappeasable wretchedness; and the white brow, covered with a spangled wreath, was presumed to ache with mental agony. She was pale and beautiful. Murmurs of applause ran round the apartment.
By her side was the faithful Bidette, armed with a bottle of salts. She bent affectionately over her mistress, and asked if she wanted anything.
"Nothing, my child--but death," was the thrilling reply.
Bidette was taken somewhat aback. She made a respectful pause. Then she said:
"But, my dear mistress, though you do not love Signor Rodicaso--"
"In Heaven's name, stop, child! You are piercing my heart with a hot iron. Name not love to me. Henceforth I erase it from the tablets of my brain. Now go on" (with tranquil despair).
"I was about to say, dear mistress, please, that Signor Rodicaso has a splendid town house, and a beautiful country seat (they say), and thousands of acres of land, which will all be yours--"
The eloquent grief of her mistress's face checked the maid.
"Bidette," she said, "I shall want but a small portion of all his lands."
"What do you mean, dear mistress?" asked the frightened maid.