She turned her face upward and smiled victoriously; her cool fragrant lips met my burning, eager ones in a close, passionate kiss.  Yes, I kissed her now—­why should I not?  She was as much mine as any purchased slave, and merited less respect than a sultan’s occasional female toy.  And as she chose to caress me, I let her do so:  I allowed her to think me utterly vanquished by the battery of her charms.  Yet whenever I caught an occasional glimpse of her face as we drove along in the semi-darkness, I could not help wondering at the supreme vanity of the woman!  Her self-satisfaction was so complete, and, considering her approaching fate, so tragically absurd!

She was entirely delighted with herself, her dress, and her conquest—­as she thought—­of me.  Who could measure the height of the dazzling visions she indulged in; who could fathom the depths of her utter selfishness!

Seeing one like her, beautiful, wealthy, and above all—­society knows I speak the truth—­well dressed, for by the latter virtue alone is a woman allowed any precedence nowadays—­would not all the less fortunate and lovely of her sex feel somewhat envious?  Ah, yes; they would and they do; but believe me, the selfish feminine thing, whose only sincere worship is offered at the shrines of Fashion and Folly, is of all creatures the one whose life is to be despised and never desired, and whose death makes no blank even in the circles of her so-called best friends.

I knew well enough that there was not a soul in Naples who was really attached to my wife—­not one who would miss her, no, not even a servant—­though she, in her superb self-conceit, imagined herself to be the adored beauty of the city.  Those who had indeed loved her she had despised, neglected, and betrayed.  Musingly I looked down upon her as she rested back in the carriage, encircled by my arm, while now and then a little sigh of absolute delight in herself broke from her lips—­but we spoke scarcely at all.  Hate has almost as little to say as love!

The night was persistently stormy, though no rain fell—­the gale had increased in strength, and the white moon only occasionally glared out from the masses of white and gray cloud that rushed like flying armies across the sky, and her fitful light shone dimly, as though she were a spectral torch glimmering through a forest of shadow.  Now and again bursts of music, or the blare of discordant trumpets, reached our ears from the more distant thoroughfares where the people were still celebrating the feast of Giovedi Grasso, or the tinkle of passing mandolins chimed in with the rolling wheels of our carriage; but in a few moments we were out of reach of even such sounds as these.

We passed the outer suburbs of the city and were soon on the open road.  The man I had hired drove fast; he knew nothing of us, he was probably anxious to get back quickly to the crowded squares and illuminated quarters where the principal merriment of the evening was going on, and no doubt thought I showed but a poor taste in requiring to be driven away, even for a short distance, out of Naples on such a night of feasting and folly.  He stopped at last; the castellated turrets of the villa I had named were faintly visible among the trees; he jumped down from his box and came to us.