She kissed the letter again and again. "Oh, if you knew how thankful I am to you, if I could tell you so on my knees as before God. Be my good angel. You do not know how much I need a good angel, with his pure, strong hand to save me from this fearful slavery. But you will not be able to save me if you would. What could you do against him? Your innocence, your goodness, your wisdom--even your courage, and you must be both wise and courageous to have braved and coaxed this from that obstinate, unapproachable man--he would throw it all into the dust, and tread it under his cruel feet, as he has thrown and trampled me in the dust." She wandered thus through the spacious room, now throwing herself into an arm-chair because her limbs threatened to fail her, and the next moment springing up and hurrying to the window to look at a carriage which had just stopped before the hotel; then again stepping before one of the large mirrors, and eagerly and anxiously examining her countenance; it must not betray her excitement when he came in--a quiver of the mouth, an unwonted degree of colour or of pallor in her cheeks, a brighter glance, a fainter light in her eyes--he saw and remarked everything, he had the key of her soul. How gladly would she have received the dear writer alone, how gladly would she at least have concealed the letter from him. But she dared not do even that; now less than ever, when her lips must say yes, while her heart cried no; when her lips must smile while hell raged in her bosom; when she must and would practise the lesson that had been taught her. She rang the bell and desired the servant who waited in the anteroom, which connected her rooms and Giraldi's, to beg the Signor to come to her for a minute. She gave the order in the most careless tone. The man, a young Frenchman, whom Giraldi had engaged in Rome, had only been a few weeks in her service; but he had no doubt been at least as long in Giraldi's pay as his predecessors. Hardly a minute had elapsed when she heard his step in the anteroom; he was today, as ever, ready to fulfil her slightest wish. She passed her hand once more hastily over her brow and eyes, and tried whether her voice sounded natural. "Dear friend, I have----" François opened the door to him at that moment. "Dear friend, I have already received an answer from my niece, so extremely kind that it can only be a trap." She had handed him the letter, which he appeared only to glance at, though he would know it by heart a year hence, as Valerie said to herself, and now, returning her the letter, sat down at the table by her. "The letter could only be a trap if you took it seriously, in which case it would be a very dangerous one." "What do you mean?" "The young lady has written it on her own account; I mean without her father's knowledge, who had probably left the house before she wrote it." "Impossible!" "Why?" "She would not have dared to do it."