“He said you would be quite happy with the other woman.” “Did you believe him?” “That’s why I said I have been very wicked,” Carlotta answered, simply. She went on with her story--an old, miserable, detestable, execrable story. At first all went merrily. Then she fell ill in Paris. It was her first acquaintance with the northern winter. Her throat proved to be delicate and she was laid up with bronchitis. To men of Pasquale’s type, a woman ill is of no more use than a spavined horse or a broken-down motor-car. More than that, she becomes an infernal nuisance. It was in his temperament to perform sporadic acts of fantastic chivalry. It appealed to something romantic, theatrical, in his facile nature. But to devote himself to a woman in sickness--that was different. The fifteenth century Italian hated like the devil continued association with pain. He would have thrown his boots to a beggar, but he would have danced in his palace over the dungeons where his brother rotted in obscurity. So poor Carlotta was neglected, and began to eat the bread of disillusion. When she got well, there was a faint recrudescence of affection. Has not this story been written a million miserable times? Why should I rend my heart again by retelling it? Wild rages, jealousies, quarrels, tears-- “And then one day he said, ‘You damned little fool, I am sick to death of you,’ and he went away, and I never saw him again. He wrote and he sent his valet to put me in the pension.” “And yet, Carlotta,” said I bitterly, “you would go back to him if he sent for you?” She sprang forward and gripped me by the arm--I was sitting quite close to her--and her face wore the terror-stricken expression of a child frightened with bogies. “Go back? After what he has done to me? You would not send me back? Seer Marcous, darling, you will keep me with you? I will be good, good, good. But go back to Pasquale? Oh, no-o-o!” She fell back in her sofa-corner, and fixed her great, deep imploring eyes on me. “My dear,” said I, “you know this is your home as long as ever you choose to stay in it--but--” and I stroked her hair gently--“if he comes back when your child is born--his child--” She drew herself up superbly. “It is my child--my very, very own,” cried Carlotta. “It is mine, mine--and I shall not allow any one to touch it--” and then her face softened--“except Seer Marcous.” CHAPTER XXIII Behold Carlotta again installed in my house which she regarded as her home. Heaven forbid that I should sow any doubt thereof in her mind.