talked, by stealth, of the happy Maddalena, and envied her splendid fortune and career. Maddalena, in the sunny garden of Rieti, longed for Venice, for companions, for life, for any thing. She grew pale, like a flower in the dark.
The time came to go to Rome. Before ordering the carriage the Marquis di Sangrido warned the Marchioness of the dangers of society, and the duties of wives. Her eyes flashed alternate scorn and longing as he spoke, and with a heart yearning and bursting, she leaped into the carriage, while her brain swam with the sudden and gorgeous hope of a new life. They reached Rome, and took possession of the palace. Fête followed fête. Everywhere Maddalena was the idol of admiration. The elastic Italian tongue was compelled into new forms of compliment; and she, like a thirst-stricken victim, plunged into the stream of life and madly revelled. She tasted new and wild experience, and quaffed it fiercely like burning wine. She had scarcely reached Rome when she saw Giulio. Their eyes met, then their hands. A week had not passed before they were ardent lovers. The whole restrained passion of her nature rose at once to flood-tide. The arrears of years were paid in moments. There was imperial splendor in her beauty. At home, at church, at the opera, upon the promenade, she was radiant, and wherever she was, Giulio was by her side and in her heart. She did not try to disguise it. The dames of high society thought her audacious, shook their fans, and recommended prudence. Maddalena scoffed at their suggestions, laughed prudence to scorn, and gloried in the tumult of her new life.
Before the shrewdest dame had even suspected, however, the Marquis di Sangrido was sure. His eye grow like a serpent's eye, and women shuddered as its livid glare fell upon them. His movements became sinuous and stealthy. Like a reptile, he chilled the sunshine as he slipped along the street to the Casino or the Café. To see him was like being smitten with disease. At the opera, in church, upon the promenade, he watched the young Giulio with his wife. Flowers were not fair enough, nor the sun bright enough, nor the day long enough for them.
The Marquis di Sangrido came home quietly one day an hour before the time he had mentioned. He entered softly, and glided
