The expression on his countenance just now, as he leaned against the iron railings of the enclosure, almost concealed behind a doctor’s brougham which awaited its master, was not pleasant to regard. Following the direction of his fixed stare, the eye was led to a superbly beautiful woman, sitting half-within the French window of a drawing-room opposite, half-out upon the balcony, among some clustering flowers. This woman was undoubtedly quite unconscious of the steady attention bestowed upon her by the solitary being, only distant from her presence by a few feet. She was a young woman of about three-and-twenty--an Italian, judging by her general aspect--attired in a rich costume, lavishly trimmed with black lace. A white lace shawl, lightly thrown over her shoulders, permitted only gracious and flowing outlines to reveal themselves; but her supremely lovely face, the masses of coiled and plaited hair, dark as night, stray diamond stars gleaming here and there, the glowing complexion, the sleepy, long, silk, soft lashes, resting upon cheeks which might be described as “peachlike,” the crimson lips, the delicately rounded chin, the perfect, shell-like ears, made up an ensemble of haunting beauty that, once seen, could never be forgotten. Of the vicinity, much less of the rapt gaze of the wayfarer lingering yonder, she was profoundly ignorant, her attention being entirely occupied by a written sheet of paper, held between her slender white fingers. This she was apparently studying with absorbed interest. The loiterer clenched his fist, malignant hate wrinkling his care-worn face, and made a gesture, betraying the most intense anger toward the imperial creature in the amber and black draperies. “So, Madam Lucia Guiscardini,” he muttered, under his breath, “you bask up there, in your beauty and your finery, like some sleek, treacherous cat! Beautiful signora, if I had a pistol now, I could shoot you dead, without leaving you a moment to think upon your sins. Your sins! and they say you are one of the best and noblest of women--those who do not know your cold and cruel heart, snow-plumaged swan of Firenze! How can it be that I could ever have loved you so wildly--that I could have knelt down to kiss the ground upon which your dainty step had trod? Were you the same--was I the same? Has all the world changed since those days? “I have suffered cold and hunger, sickness and pain, weariness of body, anguish of mind, while you have been lapped in luxury. You have been gently borne about in your carriage, wrapped in velvets and furs, or satins and laces, while I--I have passed through the rain-sodden streets with scarcely a shoe to my foot. They say you refused, in your pride, to marry a Russian prince the other day. All the world marveled at your insolent caprice. I wonder what you think of me, or if you ever honor me with a flying recollection? Am I the one drop of gall in your cup of nectar, or have you forgotten me?”