The next morning a servant came from the Hoogstraten house and gave Wilhelm a note, in which he was briefly requested to come to Nobelstrasse at two o’clock in the afternoon, neither earlier nor later.

He did not wish to say “yes”—­he could not say “no,” and went to the house at the appointed hour.  Henrica was awaiting him in the little room adjoining the hall.  She looked graver than the day before, while heavier shadows under her eyes and the deep flush on her cheeks reminded Wilhelm of Belotti’s fears for her health.  After returning his greeting, she said without circumlocution, and very rapidly: 

“I must speak to you.  Sit down.  To be brief, the way you greeted me yesterday awakened strange thoughts.  I must strongly resemble some other woman, and you met her in Italy.  Perhaps you are reminded of some one very near to me, of whom I have lost all trace.  Answer me honestly, for I do not ask from idle curiosity.  Where did you meet her?”

“In Lugano.  We drove to Milan with the same vetturino, and afterwards I found her again in Rome and saw her daily for months.”

Then you know her intimately.  Do you still think the resemblance surprising, after having seen me for the second time?”

“Very surprising.”

“Then I must have a double.  Is she a native of this country?”

“She called herself an Italian, but she understood Dutch, for she has often turned the pages of my books and followed the conversation I had with young artists from our home.  I think she is a German lady of noble family.”

“An adventuress then.  And her name?”

“Isabella—­but I think no one would be justified in calling her an adventuress.”

“Was she married?”

“There was something matronly in her majestic appearance, yet she never spoke of a husband.  The old Italian woman, her duenna, always called her Donna Isabella, but she possessed little more knowledge of her past than I.”

“Is that good or evil?”

“Nothing at all, Fraulein.”

“And what led her to Rome?”

“She practised the art of singing, of which she was mistress; but did not cease studying, and made great progress in Rome.  I was permitted to instruct her in counterpoint.”

“And did she appear in public as a singer?”

“Yes and no.  A distinguished foreign prelate was her patron, and his recommendation opened every door, even the Palestrina’s.  So the church music at aristocratic weddings was entrusted to her, and she did not refuse to sing at noble houses, but never appeared for pay.  I know that, for she would not allow any one else to play her accompaniments.  She liked my music, and so through her I went into many aristocratic houses.”

“Was she rich?”

“No, Fraulein.  She had beautiful dresses and brilliant jewels, but was compelled to economize.  Remittances of money came to her at times from Florence, but the gold pieces slipped quickly through her fingers, for though she lived plainly and eat scarcely enough for a bird, while her delicate strength required stronger food, she was lavish to imprudence if she saw poor artists in want, and she knew most of them, for she did not shrink from sitting with them over their wine in my company.”