Madame Bozier was silent.  She guessed her beloved pupil’s heart’s secret,—­but she was too tactful to dwell upon the subject, and before the brief, half-embarrassed pause between them had ended, a servant entered, asking,

“Will the Signora Contessa receive the Capitano Ruspardi?”

Sylvie rose from her seat with a look of surprise.

“Ruspardi?—­I do not know the name.”

“The business is urgent;—­the Capitano is the bearer of a letter to the Signora Contessa.”

“Remain with me, Katrine,” said Sylvie after a pause,—­then to the servant—­“Show Captain Ruspardi in here.”

Another moment, and a young officer in the Italian uniform entered hurriedly,—­his face was very pale,—­and as the Comtesse Hermenstein received him in her own serene sweet manner which, for all its high-bred air had something wonderfully winning and childlike about it, his self-control gave way, and when after a profound salute he raised his eyes, she saw they were full of tears.  Her heart began to beat violently.

“You bring some bad news?” she asked faintly.

“Madama, I beg you not to distress yourself—­this letter—­” and he held out a sealed envelope,—­“was given to me specially marked, among others, by my friend, the Marquis Fontenelle—­last right before—­before he went to his death!”

“His death!” echoed Sylvie, her eyes dilating with horror—­“His death!  What do you mean?”

Madame Bozier came quickly to her side, and put a hand gently on her arm.  But she did not seem to feel the sympathetic touch.

“His death!” she murmured.  And with trembling fingers she opened and read the last lines ever penned by her too passionate admirer.

“Sweetest Sylvie!  Dearest and purest of women!  If you ever receive this letter I shall be gone beyond the reach of your praise or your blame.  For it will not be given to you at all unless I am dead.  Dead, dear Sylvie!  That will be strange, will it not?  To be lying quite still, cold and stiff, out of the reach of your pretty warm white arms,—­deprived for ever and ever of any kiss from your rose-red lips,—­ah, Sylvie, it will be very cold and lonely!  But perhaps better so!  To-night I saw you, up in your balcony, with someone who is a brave and famous man, and who no doubt loves you.  For he cannot fail to love you, if he knows you.  God grant you may be happy when I am gone!  But I want you to feel that to-night—­to-night I love you!—­love you as I have never loved you or any woman before—­ without an evil thought,—­without a selfish wish!—­to the very height and breadth of love, I love you, my queen, my rose, my saving grace of sweetness!—­whose name I shall say to God as my best prayer for pardon, if I die to-night!

Fontenelle.”

Sylvie shuddered as with icy cold . . . a darkness seemed to overwhelm her . . . she staggered a little, and Ruspardi caught her, wondering—­at the lightness and delicacy and beauty of her, as he assisted Madame Bozier to lead her to a deep fauteuil where she sank down, trembling in every nerve.