was to be provided during the winter.  The condition that he must wait six months was imposed on the marquis, and he went back to France with the ring on his finger.  His betrothed bride did not shed a single tear for him, and as soon as he had gone, flung the engagement ring into the jewel-cup on her dressing-table, before the eyes of the camariera, from whom I heard the story.  She did not venture to oppose her father, but did not hesitate to express her opinion of the marquis to her excellenza, and her aunt, though she had favored the Frenchman’s suit, allowed it.  Yet there had often been fierce quarrels between the old and young lady, and if the padrona had had reason to clip the wild falcon’s wings and teach her what is fitting for noble ladies, the signorina would have been justified in complaining of many an exaction, by which the padrona had spoiled her pleasure in life.  I am sorry to destroy the confidence of your youth, but whoever grows grey, with his eyes open, will meet persons who rejoice, nay to whom it is a necessity to injure others.  Yet it is a consolation, that no one is wicked simply for the sake of wickedness, and I have often found—­how shall I express it?—­that the worst impulses arise from the perversion, or even the excess of the noblest virtues, whose reverse or caricature they become.  I have seen base envy proceed from beautiful ambition, contemptible avarice from honest emulation, fierce hate from tender love.  My mistress, when she was young, knew how to love truly and faithfully, but she was shamefully deceived, and now rancor, not against an individual, but against life, has taken possession of her, and her noble loyalty has become tenacious adherence to bad wishes.  How this has happened you will learn, if you will continue to listen.

“When winter came, I was ordered to go to Brussel, and establish the new household in splendid style.  The ladies were to follow me.  It was four years ago.  The Duke of Alva then lived as viceroy in Brussels, and this nobleman held my mistress in high esteem, nay had even twice paid us the honor of a visit.  His aristocratic officers also frequented our house, among them Don Luis d’Avila, a nobleman of ancient family, who was one of the duke’s favorites.  Like the Marquis d’Avennes, he was no longer in his early youth, but was a man of totally different stamp; tall, strong as if hammered from steel, a soldier of invincible strength and skill, a most dreaded seeker of quarrels, but a man whose glowing eyes and wonderful gift of song must have exerted a mysterious, bewitching power over women.  Dozens of adventures, in which he was said to have taken part, were told in the servant’s hall and half of them had some foundation of truth, as I afterwards learned by experience.  If you suppose this heart-breaker bore any resemblance to the gay, curly-haired minions of fortune, on whom young ladies lavish their love, you are mistaken; Don Luis was a grave man with close-cut hair, who never wore anything but dark clothes, and even carried a sword, whose hilt, instead of gold and silver, consisted of blackened metal.  He resembled death much more than blooming love.  Perhaps this very thing made him irresistible, since we are all born for death and no suitor is so sure of victory as he.