my father’s sake.  He would have killed him if he had known.  Later—­ later—­I must tell it you, so that you may grasp the whole situation—­the villain did all he could to direct King Amadeo’s attention to me—­he had just come to Madrid.  When I noticed his base schemes—­as I could not fail to do—­that put the finishing touches.  I gave him the choice between a scandalous lawsuit, which would have deprived him of my fortune, and voluntary banishment by accepting some government post across the sea with half my income.  He finally chose exile and the money, and I was free.  I left Madrid and settled in Paris.  You can imagine the circumstances—­a young woman of twenty-three—­alone, whose life could not possibly be filled by the care of two little children.”

“Two children?” asked Wilhelm.

“Yes,” she answered, and hung her head.

“There is cowardice of which even a courageous woman will be guilty when, out of consideration for public opinion, she continues to live under one roof with the father of her first child.  And then—­you must take me as I am, with all my imperfections, for which some good qualities may perhaps make up.”

She looked at him humbly, with the eyes of an imploring child, and continued in a low voice: 

“The Spanish colony in Paris received me with open arms.  There was no end to the entertainments, soirees and theaters.  But can that satisfy a young and embittered woman thirsting for happiness?  Of course I received a great deal of attention.  An attache of our embassy succeeded in attracting me.  I swear to you that I struggled long with him and myself, but his passion was stronger than my powers of resistance.”

Wilhelm would have drawn away his hand, but she held it fast, and went on hurriedly.

“I have finished.  For four years I shared his life, and then discovered that I had deceived myself a second time, and put an end to a connection which had lost the excuse of sincerity For two years now I have been free—­for two years my heart has been at rest.  Tell me, can you condemn me now that you know all?”

“It is not for me to judge you,” said Wilhelm sadly.  “All I think is that you have had a great deal of misfortune in your life.”

“Yes, have I not?” cried the countess eagerly.

“Do not misunderstand me.  You had the misfortune to make a mistake in thinking you loved Count Pozaldez.”

“How should a sixteen-year-old child know?  The first passably good-looking, well-bred man who flatters her wins her heart.”

“That is only too true.  But if a young girl throws away her heart so lightly, she has no right to complain if she has to repent of it for the rest of her life.”

“But that is a terrible theory!” exclaimed the countess, and dropped his hand “What?  One wakes to a knowledge of the world and of life—­ one is wretched, one sees that there is such a thing as happiness, and how it may be obtained, and one is not to stretch out a hand to grasp it?  You would really be so cruel as to say to a woman—­young, and in need of love—­in childish ignorance and folly you were guilty of a mistake, all is over for you, abandon all claims to love and hope, sunshine and life, pass your years in mourning, and bury yourself alive, you have no further right to share in the joys of life?”