“So young Palmer is bound to marry Richmond Montague’s fair daughter,” she murmured, with curling lips and a bitter laugh; “and his father is only too willing, provided she can be found.  Ha! ha! ha!” a soft, rippling laugh of intense amusement and scorn bursting from her red lips.  “I wonder what they would say if they knew all that I know?  I’d give a great deal if I could ascertain just how much the girl knows about herself.  She could make a great deal of trouble for me if—­”

She broke off suddenly just here, but after a few moments of thought resumed, in another strain: 

“I believe I shall have to cultivate my new acquaintances.  I think I can play the father against the son, and, vice versa, for it was evident to-night that both, with very little encouragement, would become my willing slaves.  I imagine that the senior Palmer might make a very agreeable companion.  He is reported to be rich—­a diamond merchant, and I am fond of diamonds.  He is certainly very gallant and not bad-looking.  Yes, I think I must cultivate him; and then, if the junior member should discover his inamorata by and by, a word in the ear of the father might be sufficient to blast Miss Mona’s hopes, and thus complete the work I began so successfully—­at least in some respects—­so many years ago.  Ah, Madame Mona, you did not realize the strength of the spirit which you defied that day in Paris.  I made you believe that your marriage was all a sham, but if I could have made it really so I should have been better pleased with my work, for then I should have had nothing to fear, at this late day, from your child.”

It is impossible to describe the venom and hatred that were concentrated in the voice of this beautiful woman, as she thus reviewed this portion of her history, which, as can plainly be seen, had left a keen sting in her heart, notwithstanding her boasted victory over her rival.

It did not seem possible that she could be the same person, with her dark, revengeful face, her contracted brow, fiercely gleaming eyes, and that cruel, bitter curl upon her lips, who, in all the glory of her beauty and powers of fascination, had been the centre of attraction in Alexander Merrill’s elegant residence less than two hours previous.

It almost seemed as if she must be possessed of a dual nature, similar to that so cleverly represented in the story of “Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”  Then, she had been all smiles, and sweetness, and graciousness, a vision of delight, a presence that charmed and pleased every one with whom she came in contact; now, she was transformed into a beautiful fiend, with a nature of spite and fury, and cruel revenge written upon every delicate feature.

She sat there in the glow of the firelight until the gilded clock on the mantel chimed the hour of two; then, with passion and pain showing themselves in her every movement, she arose, and without undressing, threw herself upon her bed, and wept herself to sleep.