“Directly,” replied Dorsenne, “and what troubles me the most is that I can not doubt but that she went there purposely.  I was so troubled by our conversation that I had not the strength to leave Rome the same evening, as I told her I should.  After much hesitation—­you understand why, now that I have told you all—­I returned to the Villa Steno at six o’clock.  To speak to her, but of what?  Did I know?  It was madness.  For her avowal only allowed of two replies, either that which I made her or an offer of marriage.  Ah, I did not reason so much.  I was afraid....  Of what?....  I do not know.  I reached the villa, where I found the Countess, gay and radiant, as was her custom, and tete-a-tete with her American.  ’Only think, there is my child,’ said she to me, ’who has refused to go to the English embassy, where she would enjoy herself, and who has gone out for a drive alone....  Will you await her?’”

“At length she began to grow uneasy, and I, seeing that no one returned, took my leave, my heart oppressed by presentiments....  Alba’s carriage stopped at the door just as I was going out.  She was pale, of a greenish pallor, which caused me to say on approaching her:  ’Whence have you come?’ as if I had the right.  Her lips, already discolored, trembled as they replied.  When I learned where she had spent that hour of sunset, and near what lake, the most deadly in the neighborhood, I said to her:  ’What imprudence!’ I shall all my life see the glance she gave me at the moment, as she replied:  ’Say, rather, how wise, and pray that I may have taken the fever and that I die of it.’  You know the rest, and how her wish has been realized.  She indeed contracted the fever, and so severely that she died in less than six days.  I have no doubt, since her last words, that it was a suicide.”

“And the mother,” asked Montfanon, “did she not comprehend finally?”

“Absolutely nothing,” replied Dorsenne.  “It is inconceivable, but it is thus.  Ah! she is truly the worthy friend of that knave Hafner, whom his daughter’s broken engagement has not grieved, in spite of his discomfiture.  I forgot to tell you that he had just sold Palais Castagna to a joint-stock company to convert it into a hotel.  I laugh,” he continued with singular acrimony, “in order not to weep, for I am arriving at the most heartrending part.  Do you know where I saw poor Alba Steno’s face for the last time?  It was three days ago, the day after her death, at this hour.  I called to inquire for the Countess!  She was receiving!  ‘Do you wish to bid her adieu?’ she asked me.  ’Good Lincoln is just molding her face for me.’  And I entered the chamber of death.  Her eyes were closed, her cheeks were sunken, her pretty nose was pinched, and upon her brow and in the corners of her mouth was a mixture of bitterness and of repose which I can not describe to you.  I thought:  ’If you had liked, she would be alive, she would smile, she would love you!’ The American was beside