The contempt, the scorn, the pathos—­the whole tragedy of her voice and bearing—­were such as I can not set down on paper, and such as I scarce could endure to hear.  Never in my life before have I felt such pity for a human being, never so much desire to do what I might in sheer compassion.

But now, how clear it all became to me!  I could understand many strange things about the character of this singular woman, her whims, her unaccountable moods, her seeming carelessness, yet, withal, her dignity and sweetness and air of breeding—­above all her mysteriousness.  Let others judge her for themselves.  There was only longing in my heart that I might find some word of comfort.  What could comfort her?  Was not life, indeed, for her to remain a perpetual tragedy?

“But, Madam,” said I, at length, “you must not wrong your father and your mother and yourself.  These two loved each other devotedly.  Well, what more?  You are the result of a happy marriage.  You are beautiful, you are splendid, by that reason.”

“Perhaps.  Even when I was sixteen, I was beautiful,” she mused.  “I have heard rumors of that.  But I say to you that then I was only a beautiful animal.  Also, I was a vicious animal I had in my heart all the malice which my mother never spoke.  I felt in my soul the wish to injure women, to punish men, to torment them, to make them pay!  To set even those balances of torture!—­ah, that was my ambition!  I had not forgotten that, when I first met you, when I first heard of—­her, the woman whom you love, whom already in your savage strong way you have wedded—­the woman whose vows I spoke with her—­I—­I, Helena von Ritz, with history such as mine!

“Father, father,”—­she turned to him swiftly; “rise—­go!  I can not now speak before you.  Leave us alone until I call!”

Obedient as though he had been the child and she the parent, the old man rose and tottered feebly from the room.

“There are things a woman can not say in the presence of a parent,” she said, turning to me.  Her face twitched.  “It takes all my bravery to talk to you.”

“Why should you?  There is not need.  Do not!”

“Ah, I must, because it is fair,” said she.  “I have lost, lost!  I told you I would pay my wager.”

After a time she turned her face straight toward mine and went on with her old splendid bravery.

“So, now, you see, when I was young and beautiful I had rank and money.  I had brains.  I had hatred of men.  I had contempt for the aristocracy.  My heart was peasant after all.  My principles were those of the republican.  Revolution was in my soul, I say.  Thwarted, distorted, wretched, unscrupulous, I did what I could to make hell for those who had made hell for us.  I have set dozens of men by the ears.  I have been promised in marriage to I know not how many.  A dozen men have fought to the death in duels over me.  For each such death I had not even a thought.  The more troubles I made, the happier I was.  Oh, yes, in time I became known—­I had a reputation; there is no doubt of that.