Everything now seemed easily arranged according to my wishes, and of itself, as it were. “That is very fortunate,” said I eagerly, telling him of the excuse I had sent for us both. “Therefore, Lando, go back to the club, I beg; or rather, I will write Lorenzo myself that he can arrange his affairs at his leisure, and return when he pleases to dine with me. I shall wait till he comes.” I hastily seized my pen to write him, but Lando resumed: “Oh! as to that, cousin, you will only waste your trouble; for seeing how late it was, and that he could not possibly be here in season to accompany you, he accepted an invitation to dine with an acquaintance of his (and yours also, I suppose) whom he met at the races to‐day.” “An acquaintance of his?...” I repeated, my heart filling with a keen anguish that made me turn pale without knowing why. Lando perceived it. “Do not be alarmed,” said he, smiling. “It is not Mme. de B——, though she was at the races also, and made a fruitless effort to divert Lorenzo’s mind from what was going on. Really, in your place,” continued he with his usual levity, “I should regret she did not succeed. That would have been much better than ... Come, ... do not frown. I am joking. To be serious, Lorenzo is not going to dine with her to‐day, but with a lady from Milan who has just arrived, and whom you doubtless know. It is Donna Faustina Reali, the Marquise de Villanera!...” Faustina Reali!... This name seemed to justify the strange presentiment I had just had, and I was tempted to exclaim with Hamlet, “O my prophetic soul!” thou hast not deceived me!... I had at that moment a sudden intuition of the past, the present, and the future. I saw clearly before me a life in which I should no longer be able to influence Lorenzo, or even to guide myself!... I controlled my agitation, however, by a powerful effort, and Lando soon left me, renewing his first injunctions, and persuaded he had fully reassured me on other points. I gave him my hand with a smile as he left the room, and as soon as I found myself alone I covered my face with my hands, and exclaimed: “O my dreams! my pleasant dreams! Where have they vanished?” XVIII. Faustina Reali!... That was the never‐to‐be‐forgotten name I had read on the card Lorenzo snatched so violently from my hands at Naples! I had never seen it again, never heard it pronounced, but I remembered only too well the expression of my husband’s face when he saw it, and the way in which he tore up the card on which it was written!... I endeavored to lead the conversation at another time back to this circumstance, but at once desisted, frightened at the manner in which he imposed silence on me, and a certain impression of both mystery and danger remained associated with the name.