I now understand the masculine Eros, and I marvel at Socrates for having remained virtuous in view of an Alcibiades like this. * * * * * I have never seen my lioness so excited. Her cheeks flamed when she left from the carriage at her villa. She hurried upstairs, and with an imperious gesture ordered me to follow. Walking up and down her room with long strides, she began to talk so rapidly, that I was frightened. “You are to find out who the man in the Cascine was, immediately— “Oh, what a man! Did you see him? What do you think of him? Tell me.” “The man is beautiful,” I replied dully. “He is so beautiful,” she paused, supporting herself on the arm of a chair, “that he has taken my breath away.” “I can understand the impression he has made on you,” I replied, my imagination carrying me away in a mad whirl. “I am quite lost in admiration myself, and I can imagine—” “You may imagine,” she laughed aloud, “that this man is my lover, and that he will apply the lash to you, and that you will enjoy being punished by him. “But now go, go.” * * * * * Before evening fell, I had the desired information. Wanda was still fully dressed when I returned. She reclined on the ottoman, her face buried in her hands, her hair in a wild tangle, like the red mane of a lioness. “What is his name?” she asked, uncanny calm. “Alexis Papadopolis.” “A Greek, then,” I nodded. “He is very young?” “Scarcely older than you. They say he was educated in Paris, and that he is an atheist. He fought against the Turks in Candia, and is said to have distinguished himself there no less by his race-hatred and cruelty, than by his bravery.” “All in all, then, a man,” she cried with sparkling eyes. “At present he is living in Florence,” I continued, “he is said to be tremendously rich—” “I didn’t ask you about that,” she interrupted quickly and sharply. “The man is dangerous. Aren’t you afraid of him? I am afraid of him. Has he a wife?” “No.” “A mistress?” “No.” “What theaters does he attend?” “To-night he will be at the Nicolini Theater, where Virginia Marini and Salvini are acting; they are the greatest living artists in Italy, perhaps in Europe. “See that you get a box—and be quick about it!” she commanded. “But, mistress—” “Do you want a taste of the whip?” * * * * * “You can wait down in the lobby,” she said when I had placed the opera-glasses and the programme on the edge of her box and adjusted the footstool. I am standing there and had to lean against the wall for support so as not to fall down with envy and rage—no, rage isn’t the right word; it was a mortal fear.