“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.”

“With artists and musicians?”

“Mere artists of noble sentiments.  At times she surpassed them all in her overflowing mirth.”

“At times?”

“Yes, only at times, for she bad also sorrowful, pitiably sorrowful hours and days, but as sunshine and shower alternate in an April day, despair and extravagant gayety ruled her nature by turns.”

“A strange character.  Do you know her end?”

“No, Fraulein.  One evening she received a letter from Milan, which must have contained bad news, and the next day vanished without any farewell.”

“And you did not try to follow her?”

Wilhelm blushed, and answered in an embarrassed tone: 

“I had no right to do so, and just after her departure I fell sick—­dangerously sick.”

“You loved her?”

“Fraulein, I must beg you—­”

“You loved her!  And did she return your affection?”

“We have known each other only since yesterday, Fraulein von Hoogstraten.”

“Pardon me!  But if you value my desire, we shall not have seen each other for the last time, though my double is undoubtedly a different person from the one I supposed.  Farewell till we meet again.  You hear, that calling never ends.  You have aroused an interest in your strange friend, and some other time must tell me more about her.  Only this one question:  Can a modest maiden talk of her with you without disgrace?”