"Do you not know about my aunt Corrèze?" she stammers.
"Yes, I know who she is."
"She was very unhappy in her first marriage," Stella goes on, now in extreme confusion, "very unhappy, and--and--she did not do as she ought; but she married Corrèze four years ago,--Corrèze, who abused her, and who is now giving concerts in America. She recognized me in the street from a photograph of me which papa sent her from Venice. She was so sweet to me, and yet so sad and shy, and she had her little daughter with her, a beautiful child, very like her, only with black hair. Papa once begged me to be kind to her if I ever met her, for his sake. What could I do? I could not ask her to come to us, for mamma will not hear her mentioned, and has for years burned all her letters unanswered. Once or twice I arranged a meeting with her in the Louvre; then she was taken ill, and could not go out, and wanted to see me. I went to see her without letting mamma know. It was not right, but--papa begged me to be kind to her----" Her large, dark eyes look at him helpless and imploring.
"Poor child! your kind heart was sorely tried," he murmurs, very gently.
"I am so glad to be able to tell some one all about it," she confesses: she has quite forgotten her terrible, disgraceful trial, in the child-like sensation of delightful security with which Rohritz always inspires her. The tears still shine upon her cheeks, but her eyes are dry. She tries to fasten the bracelet on her wrist; Rohritz kneels down beside her to help her; suddenly he possesses himself of the bracelet.
"Stella," he whispers, softly and very tenderly, "there is no denying that you are very careless with your happiness. Let me keep it for you: it will be safer with me than with you."
She looks at him, without comprehending; she is only aware of a sudden overwhelming delight,--why, she hardly knows.
"Stella, my darling, my treasure, could you consent to marry me?--could you learn to enjoy life at my side?"
"Learn to enjoy?" she repeats, with a smile that is instantly so deeply graven in his heart that he remembers it all his life afterwards. "Learn to enjoy?" She puts out her hands towards him; but just as he is about to clasp her to his heart she withdraws them, trembling, and turns pale. "Would you marry a girl at whom all Paris will point a scornful finger to-morrow?" she sobs.
"Point a scornful finger at my betrothed?" he cries, indignantly. "Have no fear, Stella; I know the world better than you do: that finger will be pointed at the worthless woman whose wounded vanity invented the monstrous slander. There is still some esprit de corps among the angels. Those in heaven do not permit evil to be wrought against their earthly sisters. One kiss, Stella, my star, my sunshine, my own darling."