“A child, his own daughter!” exclaimed Wilhelm indignantly.

“People are differently constituted,” Belotti continued.  “Some, the class to which you probably belong, cautiously consider before they speak or act; the second reflect a long time and, when they are ready, pour forth a great many words, but rarely act at all; while the third, and at their head the Hoogstraten family, heap deeds on deeds, and if they ever think, it is only after the act is accomplished.  If they then find that they have committed an injustice, pride comes in and forbids them to confess, atone for, or recall it.  So one misfortune follows another; but the gentlemen pay no heed and find forgetfulness in drinking and gambling, carousing and hunting.  There are plenty of debts, but all anxiety concerning them is left to the creditors, and boys who receive no inheritance are supplied with a place at court or in the army; for the girls, thank God, there is no lack of convents, if they confess our holy religion, and both have expectations from rich aunts and other blood relations, who die without children.”

“You paint in vivid colors.”

But they are true, and they all suit the Junker; though to be sure he need not keep his property for sons, since his wife gave him none.  He met her at court in Brussels, and she came from Parma.”

“Did you know her?”

“She died before I came to the padrona’s house.  The two young ladies grew up without a mother.  You have heard that their father would even attack them, yet he doubtless loved them and would never resolve to place them in a convent.  True, he often felt—­at least he freely admitted it in conversations with her excellenza—­that there were more suitable places for young girls than his castle, where matters went badly enough, and so he at last sent his oldest daughter to us.  My mistress usually could not endure the society of young girls, but Fraulein Anna was one of her nearest relatives, and I know she invited her of her own accord.  I can still see in memory the signorina at sixteen; a sweeter creature, Herr Wilhelm, my eyes have never beheld before or since, and yet she never remained the same.  I have seen her as soft as Flemish velvet, but at other times she could rage like a November storm in your country.  She was always beautiful as a rose and, as her mother’s old cameriera—­she was a native of Lugano—­had brought her up, and the priest who taught her came from Pisa and was acknowledged to be an excellent musician, she spoke my language like a child of Tuscany and was perfectly familiar with music.  You have doubtless heard her singing, her harp and lute-playing, but you should know that all the ladies of the Hoogstraten family, with the exception of my mistress, possess a special talent for your art.  In summer we lived in the beautiful country-house, that was torn down before the seige by your friends—­with little justice I think.  Many a stately guest rode out to visit