“Who knows?” replied Julien.  “What would be her life alone with her father, now that her illusions with regard to him have been swept away?”

The touching scene had indeed taken place, and less than twenty-four hours after the novelist had thus expressed to himself the regret of not assisting at it.  Only he was mistaken as to the tenor of the dialogue, in a manner which proved that the subtlety of intelligence will never divine the simplicity of the heart.  The most dolorous of all moral tragedies knit and unknit the most often in silence.  It was in the afternoon, toward six o’clock, that a servant came to announce Mademoiselle Hafner’s visit to the Contessina, busy at that moment reading for the tenth time the ‘Eglogue Mondaine,’ that delicate story by Dorsenne.  When Fanny entered the room, Alba could see what a trial her charming god-daughter of the past week had sustained, by the surprising and rapid alteration in that expressive and noble visage.  She took her hand at first without speaking to her, as if she was entirely ignorant of the cause of her friend’s real indisposition.  She then said: 

“How pleased I am to see you!  Are you better?”

“I have never been ill,” replied Fanny, who did not know how to tell an untruth.  “I have had pain, that is all.”  Looking at Alba, as if to beg her to ask no question, she added: 

“I have come to bid you adieu.”

“You are going away?” asked the Contessina.  “Yes,” said Fanny, “I am going to spend the summer at one of our estates in Styria.”  And, in a low voice:  “Has your mother told you that my engagement is broken?” “Yes,” replied Alba, and both were again silent.  After several moments Fanny was the first to ask:  “And how shall you spend your summer?”—­“We shall go to Piove, as usual,” was Alba’s answer.  “Perhaps Dorsenne will be there, and the Maitlands will surely be.”  A third pause ensued.  They gazed at one another, and, without uttering another word, they distinctly read one another’s hearts.  The martyrdom they suffered was so similar, they both knew it to be so like, that they felt the same pity possess them at the same moment.  Forced to condemn with the most irrevocable condemnation, the one her father, the other, her mother, each felt attracted toward the friend, like her, unhappy, and, falling into one another’s arms, they both sobbed.

CHAPTER XI

THE LAKE DI PORTO

Her friend’s tears had relieved sad Alba’s heart while she held that friend in her arms, quivering with sorrow and pity; but when she was gone, and Madame Steno’s daughter was alone, face to face with her thoughts, a greater distress seized her.  The pity which her companion in misery had shown for her—­was it not one more proof that she was right in mistrusting her mother?  Alas!  The miserable child did not know that while she was plunged in despair, there was in Rome and in her immediate