"Despair, indeed! I have seen him again and all else has become worthless to me; it is the breath of this passion that extinguishes all the other lights on the Christmas tree of my life, while I, dazzled, stare fixedly into the one all-consuming flame! But he, he--how can he respect me? That love, which I as if in a dream and intoxication gave to him, I the nameless one to the stranger--does it not now speak its own verdict of condemnation upon me? Now, when all gains name, form humiliating distinctness! In what circles does he see me. In those of importunate admirers, who sacrifice my name! The theatrical tinsel that rustles around me is sure to make all appear like a _comedia_ to him, and who knows if like a _divina comedia_! Ah! and he does not imagine how the glowing recollection of him governs all my dreams, how, like that Penelope who waited for her Odyssey, I reject every other lover." "He does not know it," said Beate, consolingly, "but you can tell him though." "And when I have told him, if he believe me, if he still love me, what then? Is my misfortune any the less? The secret of my life, that baneful fetter that I drag after me, all prohibit any thought of lasting happiness! Was there ever a more pitiable slave than I? I would make a holocaust of all my laurel wreaths, of that accumulated adornment of my life, and precipitate myself into the flames; it would be best!" "Do not despair," said Beate, "I have courage and resolution! I think day and night of a means by which to release you." "It is impossible," replied Giulia sighing. "First you shall speak to your friend of Lago Maggiore, and probe his heart. Appoint the hour yourself; I shall keep guard and no one shall cross this threshold." Gratia pressed Beate's hand gratefully, but then she shook her head, threw herself upon the sofa, and, weeping silently, buried her face in the cushions. CHAPTER IX. IN THE BOARDING SCHOOL. Upon his writing table in the _hotel garni_ that he inhabited with his wife and sisters-in-law, Professor Reising found a delicate, perfumed little note in disguised handwriting, which invited him to a _rendezvous_ in a confectioner's shop by the Castle lake. He read it through carefully, pushed it all crumpled up into his pocket, and gave himself up to meditation as grave as if he had to decipher the most difficult passages in the Hegelian logic. He was so convinced of his personal charms that he did not deem it at all impossible that he should have inflamed some female heart. Rose-coloured paper--disguised writing---what could this tiny sheet signify, that might have been wafted into his room through the air? All philosophers are inquisitive; is not all study of philosophy one great piece of inquisitiveness that peeps behind the scenes of the world, in order to convince itself by what means they are pushed and turned, and how the comedy of life is prepared.