But he had not failed, either, when he had meant to kill.  His speech was often bitter, but never spiteful, and, having nothing to fear, he was a very truthful man.  He was also reticent, however, and no one could boast of knowing the story which every one agreed in saying had so deeply influenced his life.  He had often been absent from Rome for long periods, and had been heard of as residing in more than one European capital.  He had always been supposed to be rich, but during the last three years it had become clear to his friends that he was poor.  That is all, roughly speaking, which was known of John Nepomucene, Count Spicca, by the society in which he had spent more than half his life.

Orsino, watching the pale and melancholy face, compared himself with his companion, and wondered whether any imaginable series of events could turn him into such a man at the same age.  Yet he admired Spicca, besides respecting him.  Boy-like, he envied the great duellist his reputation, his unerring skill, his unfaltering nerve; he even envied him the fear he inspired in those whom he did not like.  He thought less highly of his sayings now, perhaps, than when he had first been old enough to understand them.  The youthful affectation of cynicism had agreed well with the old man’s genuine bitterness, but the pride of growing manhood was inclined to put away childish things and had not yet suffered so as to understand real suffering.  Six months had wrought a change in Orsino, and so far the change was for the better.  He had been fortunate in finding success at the first attempt, and his passing passion for Maria Consuelo had left little trace beyond a certain wondering regret that it had not been greater, and beyond the recollection of her sad face at their parting and of the sobs he had overheard.  Though he could only give those tears one meaning, he realised less and less as the months passed that they had been shed for him.

That Maria Consuelo should often be in his thoughts was no proof that he still loved her in the smallest degree.  There had been enough odd circumstances about their acquaintance to rouse any ordinary man’s interest, and just at present Spicca’s strange hints and half confidences had excited an almost unbearable curiosity in his hearer.  But Spicca did not seem inclined to satisfy it any further.

One or two points, at least, were made clear.  Maria Consuelo was not insane, as the maid had pretended.  Her marriage with the deceased Aranjuez had been a marriage only in name, if it had even amounted to that.  Finally, it was evident that she stood in some very near relation to Spicca and that neither she nor he wished the fact to be known.  To all appearance they had carefully avoided meeting during the preceding winter, and no one in society was aware that they were even acquainted.  Orsino recalled more than one occasion when each had been mentioned in the presence of the other.  He had a good memory