"No, madam," replied Hermann in an angry tone. "Remember Tchaplitzki, and how you enabled him to win." The Countess was agitated. For a moment her features expressed strong emotion; but they soon resumed their former dulness. "Cannot you name to me," said Hermann, "three winning cards?" The Countess remained silent. "Why keep this secret for your great-grandchildren," he continued. "They are rich enough without; they do not know the value of money. Of what profit would your three cards be to them? They are debauchees. The man who cannot keep his inheritance will die in want, though he had the science of demons at his command. I am a steady man. I know the value of money. Your three cards will not be lost upon me. Come!" He stopped tremblingly, awaiting a reply. The Countess did not utter a word. Hermann went upon his knees. "If your heart has ever known the passion of love; if you can remember its sweet ecstasies; if you have ever been touched by the cry of a new-born babe; if any human feeling has ever caused your heart to beat, I entreat you by the love of a husband, a lover, a mother, by all that is sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Tell me your secret! Reflect! You are old; you have not long to live! Remember that the happiness of a man is in your hands; that not only myself, but my children and my grandchildren will bless your memory as a saint." The old Countess answered not a word. Hermann rose, and drew a pistol from his pocket. [Illustration: "ONE GLANCE SHOWED HER THAT HE WAS NOT THERE."] "Hag!" he exclaimed, "I will make you speak." At the sight of the pistol the Countess for the second time showed agitation. Her head shook violently; she stretched out her hands as if to put the weapon aside. Then suddenly she fell back motionless. "Come, don't be childish!" said Hermann. "I adjure you for the last time; will you name the three cards?" The Countess did not answer. Hermann saw that she was dead! CHAPTER IV. Lisabeta was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress, lost in the deepest meditation. On her return to the house, she had sent away her maid, and had gone upstairs to her room, trembling at the idea of finding Hermann there; desiring, indeed, _not_ to find him. One glance showed her that he was not there, and she gave thanks to Providence that he had missed the appointment. She sat down pensively, without thinking of taking off her cloak, and allowed to pass through her memory all the circumstances of the intrigue which had begun such a short time back, and had already advanced so far. Scarcely three weeks had passed since she had first seen the young officer from her window, and already she had written to him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to make an appointment. She knew his name, and that was all. She had received a quantity of letters from him, but he had never spoken to her; she did not know the sound of his voice, and until that evening, strangely enough, she had never heard him spoken of.