On the following night Vittoria was to sing at a concert in the Duchess of Graatli’s great saloon, and the duchess had humoured Pericles by consenting to his preposterous request that his spy should have an opportunity of hearing Countess d’Isorella and Irma di Karski in private conversation together, to discover whether there was any plot of any sort to vex the evening’s entertainment; as the jealous spite of those two women, Pericles said, was equal to any devilry on earth.  It happened that Countess d’Isorella did not come.  Luigi, in despair,—­was the hearer of a quick question and answer dialogue, in the obscure German tongue, between Anna von Lenkenstein and Irma di Karski; but a happy peep between the hanging curtains gave him sight of a letter passing from Anna’s hands to Irma’s.  Anna quitted her.  Irma, was looking at the superscription of the letter, an the act of passing in her steps, when Luigi tore the curtains apart, and sprang on her arm like a cat.  Before her shrieks could bring succour, Luigi was bounding across the court with the letter in his possession.  A dreadful hug awaited him; his pockets were ransacked, and he was pitched aching into the street.  Jacob Baumwalder Feckelwitz went straightway under a gas-lamp, where he read the address of the letter to Countess d’Isorella.  He doubted; he had a half-desire to tear the letter open.  But a rumour of the attack upon Irma had spread among the domestics and Jacob prudently went up to his mistress.  The duchess was sitting with Laura.  She received the letter, eyed:  it all over, and held it to a candle.

Laura’s head was bent in dark meditation.  The sudden increase of light aroused her, and she asked, “What is that?”

“A letter from Countess Anna to Countess d’Isorella,” said the duchess.

“Burnt!” Laura screamed.

“It’s only fair,” the duchess remarked.

“From her to that woman!  It may be priceless.  Stop!  Let me see what remains.  Amalia! are you mad?  Oh! you false friend.  I would have sacrificed my right hand to see it.”

“Try and love me still,” said the duchess, letting her take one unburnt corner, and crumble the black tissuey fragments to smut in her hands.

There was no writing; the unburnt corner of the letter was a blank.

Laura fooled the wretched ashes between her palms.  “Good-night,” she said.  “Your face will be of this colour to me, my dear, for long.”

“I cannot behave disgracefully, even to keep your love, my beloved,” said the duchess.

“You cannot betray a German, you mean,” Laura retorted.  “You could let a spy into the house.”

“That was a childish matter—­merely to satisfy a whim.”

“I say you could let a spy into the house.  Who is to know where the scruples of you women begin?  I would have given my jewels, my head, my husband’s sword, for a sight of that letter.  I swear that it concerns us.  Yes, us.  You are a false friend.  Fish-blooded creature! may it be a year before I look on you again.  Hide among your miserable set!”