She laughs saucily, but there is a queer light in her dark-blue eyes as she seats herself again at the piano and runs her fingers dreamily over the keys.
Three months have elapsed since the burglary at Gen. von Waldberg's Neapolitan residence, and some eight or ten weeks since Count and Countess Frederick von Waldberg have taken up their quarters in Paris. They live recklessly and extravagantly, like children who are intent on sipping all the sweets of the cup of life without giving a moment's thought to the dregs at the bottom thereof, and which they are bound to reach sooner or later.
Frederick's careless and easy-going nature had enabled him to forget in an incredibly short space of time all the tragic scenes through which he passed at Biala and Naples. He is still passionately in love with his wife, whose beauty is the talk of Paris. He has not attempted to enter society, but when the young couple drive in the “Bois” in their well-appointed victoria, or enter a box at one of the fashionable theaters, they are the cynosure of all eyes. Moreover Frederick has picked up many male acquaintances, and the choice fare and exquisite wines which are always to be found at his hospitable board prove nearly as great an attraction as the lovely eyes and matchless elegance of the mistress of the house.
Rose has, outwardly at least, become a perfect femme du monde. She has picked up all the ways and mannerisms of the higher classes with a quickness that astonishes and delights her husband. But it is fortunate that he is unable to fathom the depths of her heart. For it is just as hard, as mercenary and corrupt as of yore, and she often involuntarily yearns for the gutter from which her husband has raised her.
Toward 9 o'clock Frederick called for his coat and hat, and, kissing his wife tenderly, exclaimed:
“Do not wait up for me, little woman, as I shall not be home from the club till about 2 o'clock.”
With that he left the house and strolled down the avenue to one of the well-known cercles de jeu (gambling clubs) of the Boulevards.
Luck, however, was against him for once, and shortly after 11 o'clock, having sustained heavy losses, he left the club and walked rapidly home, in a very bad temper.
Letting himself in with his latch-key he walks softly up stairs and enters the drawing-room where a light is still dimly burning. His footsteps fall noiselessly on the thick carpet, and wishing to surprise Rose, who could hardly have retired for the night at this comparatively early hour, he pulls aside the heavy drapery of tawny plush which screens the door of her “boudoir,” and peeps in. Hardly has he done so than he springs forward with a yell of rage, for there on a low oriental divan he beholds his wife, his beloved Rose, in the arms of his butler.