“She laughed merrily; but becoming serious at once, she asked:
“‘Who sent you to me from Jézero?’
“‘My love for you, little one, and a word which the priest dropped to me. You are not forgotten there, Christine, though I make sure you have long forgotten them.’
“This surmise of mine, made at a venture, was a thing I had better have left unsaid. She turned upon me, her eyes flashing:
“‘How dare you say that—how dare you think it?’ she exclaimed; ‘have I not suffered enough because to forget is the one thing denied to me?’
“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘is it possible that a woman can suffer who has such opportunities as fortune has given to you?’
“She laughed again—a rippling laugh of irony.
“‘You speak of opportunities,’ cried she; ‘what are they but the fruits of our own work? Such opportunities as are mine have been earned by nights and days of ceaseless slavery. They are my sleep, my food, my heart. I have lived twenty years of my life in a month, that I might forget, and yet must remember more every day. Oh, I love, I love—I shall love always, Andrea. I would give all the years of my success for one hour of love in the gardens at Jézero.’
“I had not looked to find her in this mood, and it pleased me but ill. Before I could reason with her, we drove up at a house in the Wallner Strasse, where she had an apartment on the first floor, and I followed her to her rooms. They were small, but furnished with exceeding taste, and the déjeûner which was spread upon the table of her dining-room was a repast to set appetite running.
“‘Eccoli, little one,’ cried I, surveying the fruit and the flowers, and the rich red wine in the cut-glass decanters, ‘of a truth fortune has done well to you. That your talent should have brought you such a reward! Did I not say always——’