sure of being willing to try this test,—­besides, the Marquis had not offered himself in that capacity, but only as a lover.  In Paris,—­ within reach of him, surrounded by his gracious and graceful courtesies everywhere, the pretty and sensitive Comtesse had sometimes felt her courage oozing out at her finger’s ends,—­and the longing to be loved became so strong and overwhelming in her soul that she had felt she must perforce one day yield to her persistent admirer’s amorous solicitations, come what would of it in the end.  Her safety had been in flight; and here in Rome, she had found herself, like a long-tossed little ship, suddenly brought up to firm anchorage.  The vast peace and melancholy grandeur of the slowly dying “Mother of Nations”, enveloped her as with a sheltering cloak from the tempest of her own heart and senses, and being of an exquisitely refined and dainty nature in herself, she had, while employing her time in beautifying, furnishing and arranging her apartments in the casa D’Angeli, righted her mind, so to speak, and cleared it from the mists of illusion which had begun to envelop it, so that she could now think of Fontenelle quietly and with something of a tender compassion,—­she could pray for him and wish him all things good,—­but she could not be quite sure that she loved him.  And this was well.  For we should all be very sure indeed that we do love, before we crucify ourselves to the cross of sacrifice.  Inasmuch as if the love in us be truly Love, we shall not feel the nails, we shall be unconscious of the blood that flows, and the thorns that prick and sting,—­we shall but see the great light of Resurrection springing glorious out of death!  But if we only think we love,—­when our feeling is the mere attraction of the senses and the lighter impulses—­then our crucifixion is in vain, and our death is death indeed.  Some such thoughts as these had given Sylvie a new charm of manner since her arrival in Rome—­she was less mirthful, but more sympathetic—­less riante, but infinitely prettier and more fascinating.  Florian Varillo studied her appreciatively in this regard after he had uttered his little meaningless melody of sentiment, and thought within himself—­“A week or two and I could completely conquer that woman!” He was mistaken—­men who think these sort of things often are.  But the thought satisfied him, and gave bold lustre to his eyes and brightness to his smile when he rose to take his leave.  He had been one of the guests at a small and early dinner-party given by the Comtesse that evening,—­and with the privilege of an old acquaintance, he had lingered thus long after all the others had gone to their respective homes.

“I will bid you now the felicissima notte, cara e bella contessa!” he said caressingly, raising her small white hand to his lips, and kissing it with a lingering pressure of what he considered a peculiarly becoming moustache—­“When Angela arrives to-morrow night I shall be often at the Palazzo Sovrani—­shall I see you there?”