“I see you are.  That makes what you say all the more surprising.”

“No doubt it does.  Madame d’Aranjuez has just written to you, and you have her letter in your pocket.  She has told you in that letter a number of facts in her own life, as she sees them, and you look at them as she does.  It is natural.  To her and to you, I appear to be a monster of evil, a hideous incarnation of cruelty, a devil in short.  Did she call me a devil in her letter?”

“She did.”

“Precisely.  She has also written to me, informing me that I am Satan.  There is a directness in the statement and a general disregard of probability which is not without charm.  Nevertheless, I am Spicca, and not Beelzebub, her assurances to the contrary notwithstanding.  You see how views may differ.  You know much of her life, but you know nothing of mine, nor is it my intention to tell you anything about myself.  But I will tell you this much.  If I could do anything to mend matters, I would.  If I could make it possible for you to marry Madame d’Aranjuez—­being what you are, and fenced in as you are, I would.  If I could tell you all the rest of the truth, which she does not know, nor dream of, I would.  I am bound by a very solemn promise of secrecy—­by something more than a promise in fact.  Yet, if I could do good to her by breaking oaths, betraying confidence and trampling on the deepest obligations which can bind a man, I would.  But that good cannot be done any more.  That is all I can tell you.”

“It is little enough.  You could, and you can, tell the whole truth, as you call it, to Madame d’Aranjuez.  I would advise you to do so, instead of embittering her life at every turn.”

“I have not asked for your advice, Orsino.  That she is unhappy, I know.  That she hates me, is clear.  She would not be the happier for hating me less, since nothing else would be changed.  She need not think of me, if the subject is disagreeable.  In all other respects she is perfectly free.  She is young, rich, and at liberty to go where she pleases and to do what she likes.  So long as I am alive, I shall watch over her—­”

“And destroy every chance of happiness which presents itself,” interrupted Orsino.

“I gave you some idea, the other night, of the happiness she might have enjoyed with the deceased Aranjuez.  If I made a mistake in regard to what I saw him do—­I admit the possibility of an error—­I was nevertheless quite right in ridding her of the man.  I have atoned for the mistake, if we call it so, in a way of which you do not dream, nor she either.  The good remains, for Aranjuez is buried.”

“You speak of secret atonement—­I was not aware that you ever suffered from remorse.”

“Nor I,” answered Spicca drily.

“Then what do you mean?”

“You are questioning me, and I have warned you that I will tell you nothing about myself.  You will confer a great favour upon me by not insisting.”