Italian voluptuousness, the salon furnished in imitation of Paris.  Shrubs blossomed in large terra-cotta vases.  Statuettes were to be seen on the balustrade, and, beyond, the pines of the Villa Bonaparte outlined their black umbrellas against a sky of blue velvet, strewn with large stars.  A vague aroma of acacias, from a garden near by, floated in the air, which was light, caressing, and warm.  The soft atmosphere sufficed to convict of falsehood the Contessina, who had evidently wished to justify the tete-a-tete of her mother and of Maitland.  The two lovers were indeed together in the perfume, the mystery and the solitude of the obscure and quiet terrace.

It took Dorsenne, who came from the bright glare of the salon, a moment to distinguish in the darkness the features of the Countess who, dressed all in white, was lying upon a willow couch with soft cushions of silk.  She was smoking a cigarette, the lighted end of which, at each breath she drew, gave sufficient light to show that, notwithstanding the coolness of the night, her lovely neck, so long and flexible, about which was clasped a collar of pearls, was bare, as well as her fair shoulders and her perfect arms, laden with bracelets, which were visible through her wide, flowing sleeves.  On advancing, Julien recognized, through the vegetable odors of that spring night, the strong scent of the Virginian tobacco which Madame Steno had used since she had fallen in love with Maitland, instead of the Russian “papyrus” to which Gorka had accustomed her.  It is by such insignificant traits that amorous women recognize a love profoundly, insatiably sensual, the only one of which the Venetian was capable.  Their passionate desire to give themselves up still more leads them to espouse, so to speak, the slightest habits of the men whom they love in that way.  Thus are explained those metamorphoses of tastes, of thoughts, even of appearance, so complete, that in six months, in three months of separation they become like different people.  By the side of that graceful and supple vision, Lincoln Maitland was seated on a low chair.  But his broad shoulders, which his evening coat set off in their amplitude, attested that before having studied “Art”—­and even while studying it—­he had not ceased to practise the athletic sports of his English education.  As soon as he was mentioned, the term “large” was evoked.  Indeed, above the large frame was a large face, somewhat red, with a large, red moustache, which disclosed, in broad smiles, his large, strong teeth.

Large rings glistened on his large fingers.  He presented a type exactly opposite to that of Boleslas Gorka.  If the grandson of the Polish Castellan recalled the dangerous finesse of a feline, of a slender and beautiful panther, Maitland could be compared to one of those mastiffs in the legends, with a jaw and muscles strong enough to strangle lions.  The painter in him was only in the eye and in the hand, in consequence of a gift as physical as the voice