“Is the child a boy or a girl?” I asked, carelessly.

“A girl.  A mere baby—­an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, very like her father.”

My poor little Stella.

Every pulse of my being thrilled with indignation at the indifferently chill way in which he, the man who had fondled her and pretended to love her, now spoke of the child.  She was, as far as he knew, fatherless; he, no doubt, had good reason to suspect that her mother cared little for her, and, I saw plainly that she was, or soon would be, a slighted and friendless thing in the household.  But I made no remark—­I sipped my cognac with an abstracted air for a few seconds—­then I asked: 

“How was the count buried?  Your narrative interests me greatly.”

“Oh, the priest who was with him saw to his burial, and I believe, was able to administer the last sacraments.  At any rate, he had him laid with all proper respect in his family vault—­I myself was present at the funeral.”

I started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself.

“You were present—­you—­you—­” and my voice almost failed me.

Ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry.

“Of course!  You are astonished at that?  But perhaps you do not understand.  I was the count’s very closest friend, closer than a brother, I may say.  It was natural, even necessary, that I should attend his body to its last resting place.”

By this time I had recovered myself.

“I see—­I see!” I muttered, hastily.  “Pray excuse me—­my age renders me nervous of disease in any form, and I should have thought the fear of contagion might have weighed with you.”

“With me!” and he laughed lightly.  “I was never ill in my life, and I have no dread whatever of cholera.  I suppose I ran some risk, though I never thought about it at the time—­but the priest—­one of the Benedictine order—­died the very next day.”

“Shocking!” I murmured over my coffee-cup.  “Very shocking.  And you actually entertained no alarm for yourself?”

“None in the least.  To tell you the truth, I am armed against contagious illnesses, by a conviction I have that I am not doomed to die of any disease.  A prophecy”—­and here a cloud crossed his features—­“an odd prophecy was made about me when I was born, which, whether it comes true or not, prevents me from panic in days of plague.”

“Indeed!” I said, with interest, for this was news to me.  “And may one ask what this prophecy is?”

“Oh, certainly.  It is to the effect that I shall die a violent death by the hand of a once familiar friend.  It was always an absurd statement—­an old nurse’s tale—­but it is now more absurd than ever, considering that the only friend of the kind I ever had or am likely to have is dead and buried—­namely, Fabio Romani.”

And he sighed slightly.  I raised my head and looked at him steadily.