I was duly introduced by the Marchese, and Signora Morone received me in the most amiable manner. She was certainly a very charming woman, and had I not known her true character, I would doubtless have been fascinated by her gracious affability; but, in spite of her courtesy, I could hardly speak to her without a feeling of repulsion. This beautiful woman, so suave, so smiling, so seductive, inspired me with that sensation of absolute dread which one experiences at the sight of a sleek, velvet-footed pantheress--a comely beast to admire, but a terrible one to caress. I replied to her polite inquiries in a somewhat mechanical fashion, which she doubtless put down to my imperfect knowledge of Italian, for in spite of all my efforts to feel at ease in her society, yet I was unable to do more than behave with strained courtesy towards this woman whose mask I had torn off, whose secret I had penetrated, and the wickedness of whose heart I knew.

There were several other gentlemen in the room, who talked gaily with the Contessa, and amused themselves by eating the bonbons and crystallised fruits provided for refreshments. The last act of the opera had not yet commenced, so Signora Morone sank gracefully into a velvet-cushioned chair, and permitted her courtiers to retail all the news of the day for her amusement. I am afraid this description sounds somewhat hyperbolical, but indeed it is the only way in which I can describe this woman, whose every movement was full of sinuous grace and feline treachery. Cat, tigeress, pantheress as she was, her claws were now sheathed in her velvet paws, but the claws were there all the same, and would doubtless scratch at the least provocation.

Some people do not believe in transmigration, but I am a true disciple of Pythagoras in that bizarre doctrine, and I firmly believe that in a former existence the soul of Giulietta Morone had animated the body of some tawny tigeress who had stolen through the jungle beneath the burning skies of Hindostan, slaying and devouring her victims in conformity with the instincts of her savage nature. Now she was a woman--a fair, majestic woman--but the instinct of the beast was there, the desire for slaughter and the lust for blood. What made me indulge still more in this fancy was the colours of the dress she wore black and yellow--all twisted in and out with a curious resemblance to the sleek fur of the beast to which I had likened her. The soft glimmer of the pearl strings twined in her magnificent red hair seemed out of place as ornaments for this woman; but the rubies suited her nature well, the red, angry rubies that shot flashes of purple fire from her neck at every heave of her white bosom. Leaning back in her deep chair with a cruel smile on her full crimson lips, the glimmer of pearls, the fire-glint of the fierce-tinted gems, and the bizarre mixture of amber and black in her dress, she slowly waved her sandalwood fan to and fro, diffusing a strange, sleepy perfume through the room, and looking what I verily believed her to be, the type of incarnate evil in repose.

While I was thinking in this fanciful fashion, the Contessa was talking to her friends in a slow, rich voice, and Beltrami--well, Beltrami was watching me closely. Do you know that strange sensation of being watched? that uneasy consciousness that some unseen eye is observing the least movement? Yes, of course you do! Every one has felt it, in a more or less degree, according to their nervous susceptibility. At the present time, with all my senses on the alert for unexpected events, it was therefore little to be wondered at that I felt the magnetism of Beltrami's gaze, and, on looking up, saw his keen black eyes fixed upon me with an enigmatical expression. For the moment I was startled, but immediately that feeling passed away for I well knew the strange nature of the Marchese, which was a peculiar mixture of good and evil, of kindness and cruelty, of hate and love, which must have proceeded from some aberration of his subtle intellect.

Beltrami's face always put me in mind of that sinister countenance of Sigismondo Malatesta, which sneers so malevolently at the curious onlooker from the walls of the Duomo at Rimini. He had the same treacherous droop of the eyelids, the same thin nose with wide, sensitive nostrils, and the same malignant smile on his thin lips. Yet he was handsome enough, this young Italian; but his face, in spite of my friendship, repelled me--in a less degree, it is true, but still it repelled me in the like manner as did that of the Contessa Morone. So he was going to marry her. Well, they were certainly well-matched in every respect, and if the man had not the active wickedness of the woman, still the capability of evil was there, and would awaken to life when necessary to be exercised. Both Beltrami and his future wife were anachronisms in this nineteenth century, and should have lived, smiled, and died in the time of the Renaissance, when they would have been fitted companions of those Italian despots of whom Machiavelli gives the typical examples in his book "The Prince."

The Marchese saw my inquiring look, and with an enigmatic smile walked across to where I was standing in the warm, yellow light.

"Ebbene! Signor Hugo," he whispered, with a swift glance at the Contessa, "tell me what you think of my choice."

"It does you credit, Marchese. You will have a beautiful wife."

"And a loving one, I hope. Tell me, mon ami, do you not envy me?"

I hesitated a moment before replying, and then blurted out the truth,--

"Honestly speaking, Signor Luigi, I do not!"

"Dame! and why?"

"Well, I can hardly tell you my reasons, but I have them, nevertheless."

Beltrami looked hard at me with an inquisitive look in his dark eyes, and a satirical smile on his thin lips.

"You are not complimentary, my friend," he said, turning away with a supercilious laugh.

I laid my hand on his shoulder and explained,--

"Pardon me, Beltrami, you do not understand----"

"Eh! do not apologise! I understand better than you think."

He was evidently not at all offended, and I felt puzzled by his manner. It was true he had candidly acknowledged that he was making this marriage for money, but surely he must also love this woman, whose ripe beauty was so attractive to the passionate nature of the Italians. Yet, judging from his mode of speech, he evidently had some mistrust--a mistrust for which I could not account. He could know nothing of the affair at the Palazzo Morone, so there certainly could be no reason for suspicion on his part. She was a beautiful woman, a rich woman, an attractive woman, so with this trinity of perfections she decidedly merited a warmer love than Beltrami appeared inclined to give her. Could it be that her evil beauty repelled him, as it did me? No! that was impossible, seeing that, according to my idea, their natures were wonderfully alike. Altogether the whole demeanour of the Marchesa perplexed me by its strangeness, and I watched him narrowly as h............