to sing one of her Polish melodies; which she
told him had been taught, when a child, by
her muse. Roszynski, unable to restrain the
expression of an intense admiration he had
long felt, frantically seized her hand, and
exclaimed,"I love you!"

She withdrew it from his grasp, remained
silent for a few minutes, and then said slowly,
distinctly, and ironically, "But I do not love
you, Count Roszynski."

Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his
hands to his brow, and was silent. Giovanna
remained calm and tranquil. " It is a penalty
from Heaven," continued Leon, as if speaking
to himself, "for not having fulfilled my duty
as a husband towards one whom I chose
voluntarily, but without reflection. I wronged
her, and am punished."

Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon
continued, " Young, and with a heart
untouched, I married a princess about ten years
older than myself, of eccentric habits an
bad temper. She treated me as an inferior.
She dissipated the fortune hoarded up with so
much care by my parents, and yet was ashamed
on account of my origin to be called by my name.
Happily for me, she was fond of visiting and
amusements. Otherwise, to escape from her,
I might have become a gambler, or worse; but,
to avoid meeting her, I remained at home—
for there she seldom was. At first from
ennui, but afterwards from real delight in
the occupation, I gave myself up to study.
Reading formed my mind and heart. I became
a changed being. Some months ago my father
died, my sister went to Lithuania, whilst my
mother, in her old age, and with her ideas,
was quite incapable of understanding my
sorrow. So when my wife went to the baths
for the benefit of her ruined health, I came
here in the hope of meeting with some of my
former friends—I saw you—"

Giovanna blushed like one detected; but
speedily recovering herself, asked with calm
pleasantry, " Surely you do not number me
among your former friends?"

"I know not. I have been bewildered. It
is strange; but from the moment I saw you
at Count Selka's, a powerful instinct of love
overcame me; not a new feeling; but as if
some latent, long-hid, undeveloped sentiment
had suddenly burst forth into an uncontrollable
passion. I love, I adore you. I——"

The Prima Donna interrupted him—not
with speech, but with a look which awed,
which chilled him. Pride, scorn, irony sat
in her smile. Satire darted from her eyes.
After a pause, she repeated slowly and
pointedly, " Love me, Count Roszynski?"

"Such is my destiny," he replied. "Nor,
despite your scorn, will I struggle against it.
I feel it is my fate ever to love you; I fear it
is my fate never to be loved by you. It is
dreadful."

Giovanna witnessed the Count's emotion
with sadness. " To have," she said mournfully,
"one's first pure, ardent, passionate affection
unrequited, scorned, made a jest of, is indeed
a bitterness, almost equal to that of death."

She made a strong effort to conceal her
emotion. Indeed she controlled it so well as
to speak the rest with a sort of gaiety.

"You have at least been candid. Count
Roszynski; I will imitate you by telling
a little history that occurred in your country.
There was a poor girl born and bred
a serf to her wealthy lord and master.
When scarcely fifteen years old, she was
torn from a state of happy rustic freedom
—the freedom of humility and content—to be
one of the courtly slaves of the Palace.
Those who did not laugh at her, scolded her.
One kind word was vouchsafed to her, and
that came from the lord's son. She nursed
it and treasured it; till, from long concealing
and restraining her feelings, she at last found
that gratitude had changed into a sincere
affection. But what does a man of the world
care for the love of a serf? It does not even
flatter his vanity. The young nobleman did
not understand the source of her tears and
her grief, and he made a present of her, as
he would have done of some animal to his
betrothed."

Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened,
would have interrupted her; but Giovanna
said. "Allow me to finish my tale.
Providence did not abandon this poor orphan, but
permitted her to rise to distinction by the
talent, with which she was endowed by nature.
The wretched serf of Pobereze became a
celebrated Italian cantatrice. Then her former
lord meeting her in society, and seeing her
admired and courted by all the world, without
knowing who she really was, was afflicted, as
if by the dictates of Heaven, with a love for
this same girl,—with a guilty love"—

And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to
remove herself further from her admirer.

"No, no! " he replied earnestly; "with a
pure and holy passion."

"Impossible!" returned Giovanna. "Are
you not married?"

Roszynski vehemently tore a letter from
his vest, and handed it to Giovanna. It was
sealed with black, for it announced the death
of his wife at the baths. It had only arrived
that morning.

"You have lost no time," said the cantatrice,
endeavouring to conceal her feelings
under an iron mask of reproach.

There was a pause. Each dared not speak.
The Count knew—but without actually and
practically believing what seemed incredible
—that Anielka and Giovanna were the same
person—his slave. That terrible relationship
checked him. Anielka, too, had played her
part to the end of endurance. The long-
cherished tenderness—the faithful love of her
life could not longer be wholly mastered.
Hitherto they had spoken in Italian. She
now said in Polish,

"You have a right, my Lord Roszynski,
to that poor Anielka who escaped from the