Upon the profound silence broke the tramp of a horse’s hoofs in the neighbouring courtyard, then Varney’s whistle in imitation of the earl’s signal when visiting the countess.

Instantly the door of her chamber swung open, and, standing a moment upon the threshold, Amy in her fleecy-white drapery wavered like a drifting cloud, then moved forward upon the balcony; the trapdoor fell, and the lovely marble face with its lustrous brown eyes sank into the darkness of death.

CHAPTER VII.

To men and women of intensely emotional nature, it sometimes happens that a day of keen and torturing suspense, or a night’s vigil of great anguish, mars and darkens a countenance more indelibly than the lapse of several ordinary monotonous years; and as Madame Orme sat in her reception-room at one o’clock on the following afternoon, awaiting the visit of the minister, the blanched face was far sterner and prouder than when yesterday’s sun rippled across it, and bluish shadows beneath the large eyes that had not closed for twenty-four hours lent them a deeper and more fateful glow.

The soft creamy folds of her Cashmere robe were relieved at the throat by a knot of lilac ribbon, and amid its loops were secured clusters of violets, that matched in hue the long spike of hyacinth which was fastened in one side of the coiled hair, twined just behind the ear, and drooped low on the snowy neck.  Before her on a gilded stand was the purple pyramid of flowers she had brought from the theatre, and beside them lay several perfumed envelopes with elaborate monograms.  These notes contained tributes of praise from strangers who had been fascinated by her “Amy Robsart,” and begged the honour of an interview, or the favour of a “photograph taken in the silken cymar which so advantageously displayed the symmetry of her figure.”

Among the latter she had recognized the handwriting of Mr. Laurance, though the signature was “Jules Duval,” and her fingers had shrunk from the folds of rose paper, as though scorched by flame.  Lying there on the top of the billets-doux, the elegant, graceful chirography of the “Madame Odille Orme” drew her gaze, like the loathsome fascination of a basilisk, and taking a package of notes from her pocket, she held them for a moment close to the satin envelope.  Upon one the name of the popular actress; on the others—­in the same peculiar beautiful characters—­“Minnie Merle.”  She put away the latter, and a flash of scorn momentarily lighted her rigid face.

“Craven as of old!  Too cowardly to boldly ask the thing his fickle fancy favours; he begs under borrowed names.  Doubtless his courage wilts before his swarthy, bold-eyed Xantippe, who allows him scant latitude for flirtations with pretty actresses.  To be thrown aside—­trampled down—­for such a creature as Abbie Ames! his coarse-featured, diamond-dowered bride!  Ah! my veins run lava; when I think of her thick heavy lips, pressing that haughty perfect mouth, where mine once clung so fondly!  Last night the two countenances seemed like ‘as Hyperion to a Satyr!’ How completely he sold his treacherous beauty to the banker’s daughter, whom to-day he would willingly betray for a fairer, fresher face.  Craven traitor!”