With regard to the packet inclosed, D’Avencourt continued—­“The accompanying letters were found in Ferrari’s breast-pocket, and on opening the first one, in the expectation of finding some clew as to his last wishes, we came to the conclusion that you, as the future husband of the lady whose signature and handwriting you will here recognize, should be made aware of the contents, not only for your own sake, but in justice to the deceased.  If all the letters are of the same tone as the one I unknowingly opened, I have no doubt Ferrari considered himself a sufficiently injured man.  But of that you will judge for yourself, though, if I might venture so far in the way of friendship, I should recommend you to give careful consideration to the inclosed correspondence before tying the matrimonial knot to which you alluded the other evening.  It is not wise to walk on the edge of a precipice with one’s eyes shut!  Captain Ciabatti was the first to inform me of what I now know for a fact—­namely, that Ferrari left a will in which everything he possessed is made over unconditionally to the Countess Romani.  You will of course draw your own conclusions, and pardon me if I am guilty of trop de zele in your service.  I have now only to tell you that all the unpleasantness of this affair is passing over very smoothly and without scandal—­I have taken care of that.  You need not prolong your absence further than you feel inclined, and I, for one, shall be charmed to welcome you back to Naples.  With every sentiment of the highest consideration and regard, I am, my dear conte,
     “Your very true friend and servitor,
     “Philippe D’AVENCOURT.”

I folded this letter carefully and put it aside.  The little package he had sent me lay in my hand—­a bundle of neatly folded letters tied together with a narrow ribbon, and strongly perfumed with the faint sickly perfume I knew and abhorred.  I turned them over and over; the edges of the note-paper were stained with blood—­Guido’s blood—­as though in its last sluggish flowing it had endeavored to obliterate all traces of the daintily penned lines that now awaited my perusal.  Slowly I untied the ribbon.  With methodical deliberation I read one letter after the other.  They were all from Nina—­all written to Guido while he was in Rome, some of them bearing the dates of the very days when she had feigned to love me—­me, her newly accepted husband.  One very amorous epistle had been written on the self-same evening she had plighted her troth to me!  Letters burning and tender, full of the most passionate protestations of fidelity, overflowing with the sweetest terms of endearment; with such a ring of truth and love throughout them that surely it was no wonder that Guido’s suspicions were all unawakened, and that he had reason to believe himself safe in his fool’s paradise.  One passage in this poetical and romantic correspondence fixed my attention:  it ran thus: 

“Why do you write so much of marriage to me, Guido mio? it seems to my mind that all the joy of loving will be taken from us when once the hard world knows of our passion.  If you become my husband you will assuredly cease to be my lover, and that would break my heart.  Ah, my best beloved!  I desire you to be my lover always, as you were when Fabio lived—­why bring commonplace matrimony into the heaven of such a passion as ours?”