"'Jeanne!' said my aunt, hammering at the door of the room where he was with the lady's maid, 'hand me the _Figaro_, if you please.' My aunt was discreet. That was all she said." "And what did they reply?" asked Sor Mario, sitting up straight, his toothpick in his fingers. "My dear!" said Arduina, "what a stupid question!" Before leaving, the Princess invited Regina to her Friday receptions. Regina promised to go; but that night, when she was comfortably in bed, lulled in the quiet and warmth of the first half-slumber, she said-- "Antonio, do you know what? I've taken a great dislike to that Princess!" "Why? She's all right." "Yes, but--you see----" "What?" She paused--then went on, her voice rather sleepy: "Do you remember that female lion-tamer we saw at Parma? She looked at women in such a strange way. I couldn't think whom the Princess reminded me of, and I thought, and thought----Her eyes are just like that lion-tamer's! Didn't you see how she stared at me?" "Well? She liked you. Who knows but she'll leave you something in her will!" "Is she really rich?" "The deuce she is! A millionaire." "Her gloves were so dirty." "Did you see her rings?" "What do I care for rings if the gloves are dirty?" Regina relapsed into silence; then she laughed softly, and presently fell into a light sleep. She dreamt she was in a wood on the banks of the Po towards Viadana. The shining waters were churned by a mill, but the mill was a castle with vast rooms hung with red, and the castle belonged to Madame Makuline. The Princess was dead, but her soul had climbed up a poplar-tree, through the silver leaves of which shone the river, a crystalline blue. The mill wheel roared like thunder, and Regina, seated on the entrance stair of the castle, was washing her feet in a runnel of greenish water which overflowed the steps. A white duck came to peck at the little toe of her right foot, and laughed. Regina laughed herself. She was vaguely aware she was dreaming, for she was analysing her sentiments, and knew that a mill is a mill, that ducks can't laugh, and souls can't climb poplar-trees. None the less, she was oppressed by mysterious fear, by a sense of intolerable repugnance and distress. Antonio heard her laugh, that vague, strange laugh from the profundity of dream which is like a voice from the depths of a well. "She's having pleasant visions--she is happy, my little queen!" he thought, much moved. CHAPTER III That winter was cold in Rome, and the rain seemed endless. Even days which began fine grew suddenly dark; the wind rose, and down came a deluge. Luckily, the showers did not last. Soon the pavements dried, the clouds blew away, the sky became blue, as if smiling at an accomplished jest. The people, however, came home with their clothes drenched, their boots soaking, their chests racked with coughs and their bosoms with evil temper.