"There is something else I have to hand over to you," said Flamma, as I stepped nearer; and, drawing from the pocket of her dress an envelope, she handed me an official-looking document, fastened with tri-coloured tape, with a large official seal upon it. It was a power of attorney from Flamma Maria, Countess Vernöczy of Vranicsa, to her husband Dr. Cornelius Dumany of Dumanyfalva, giving him full authority over her dowry, consisting of real estate, bonds, etc., to the amount of one million of florins, and authorising him to sell or retain or use the aforesaid securities according to his own need or pleasure, and without previous consultation with any person, his wife included.
"Dearest," I said, "this is very generous of you; but there is no need of any such document to give me proof of your confidence."
"I did not intend it as such a proof."
"Then what was your intention?"
"To give you no cause to accuse me of meanness. You shall not say that I left you on your wedding-day without a shilling in your pocket, as your friend was left on the Isle of Wight."
I gazed at her, at the pale face that was even paler than usual, and cold and inanimate as a block of ice.
"Flamma!" I cried, "what does it mean? How am I to take this?"
"As a confession. That other man has made me—his—wife."
"Flamma!"
She stood there, pale, cold, statue-like, and her voice sounded like that of an automaton. I felt like one stupefied, like one who had meant to enter the gates of paradise and found himself in a sea of fire and brimstone.