pleased to remember that more than a month has elapsed since a melancholy occurrence at the Royal Italian Opera House, and that I have some right to be impatient."
She did not answer him immediately; for at this moment a servant entered, carrying a lamp, which he placed on the table by her side, and afterwards drew the heavy velvet curtains across the great window, shutting out the chill winter night.
"You are very much altered, mademoiselle," said Raymond, as he scrutinized the wan face under the lamp-light.
"That is scarcely strange," she answered, in a chilling tone. "I am not yet accustomed to crime, and cannot wear the memory of it lightly."
Her visitor was dusting his polished riding-boot with his handkerchief as he spoke. Looking up with a smile, he said,—
"Nay, mademoiselle, I give you credit for more philosophy. Why use ugly words? Crime—poison—murder!" He paused between each of these three words, as if every syllable had been some sharp instrument—as if every time he spoke he stabbed her to the heart and stopped to calculate the depth of the wound. "There are no such words as those for beauty and high rank. A person far removed from our sphere offends us, and we sweep him from our path. We might as well regret the venomous insect which, having stung us, we destroy."
She did not acknowledge his words by so much as one glance or gesture, but said coldly,—
"You were so candid as to confess, monsieur, when you served me, yonder in Paris, that you did so in the expectation of a reward. You are here, no doubt, to claim that reward?"
He looked up at her with so strange a light in his blue eyes, and so singular a smile curving the dark moustache which hid his thin arched lips, that in spite of herself she was startled into looking at him anxiously. He was determined that in the game they were playing she should hold no hidden cards, and he was therefore resolved to see her face stripped of its mask of cold indifference. After a minute's pause he answered her question,—
"I am."
"It is well, monsieur. Will you be good enough to state the amount you claim for your services?"
"You are determined, mademoiselle, it appears," he said, with the strange light still glittering in his eyes, "you are determined to give me credit for none but the most mercenary sentiments. Suppose I do not claim any amount of money in repayment of my services?"
"Then, monsieur, I have wronged you. You are a disinterested villain, and, as such, worthy of the respect of the wicked. But since this is the case, our interview is at end. I am sorry
