Standing before the glass, she viewed herself, her lips murmuring low words, occasionally turning her eyes from the mirror to the little table standing near it, upon which lay several open books.

What murmured she, and what read she in those books?  Singular! she was uttering single, isolated, unconnected words, which had nothing in common with each other but the sound of melody; they were rhymes, but without connection or sense, without inward mental correlation.

“So,” she now said to herself, with a satisfied smile, “I am now perfectly armed and prepared.  All these rhymes ready for use, and I have not to fear embarrassment in repeating any of them.  Ah, they shall admire me, these good Romans.  I will animate and inflame them, and excite all my enamored cardinals to such an ecstasy that they must finally prevail upon the silly, obstinate old pope against his own will to fulfil my only desire.  I will attain my end, even if I am compelled to pawn my honor and my salvation for it!  Bah! honor; what can honor be to a woman?  Beauty is our honor, further nothing!  And fair, it seems to me, I yet am!  And if I am fair,” she more glowingly continued, after a pause, “how comes it that Carlo has ceased to love me?  Ah, the false one, to betray and desert me when I love him most!”

A dark flush of anger now overspread her cheeks, and threateningly raising her hands, with compressed lips she continued:  “And to desert me for another woman—­me, the pride and delight of all Rome; me, whom all the princes and cardinals worship!  Ah, while thousands lie at my feet, imploring for a glance or a smile, this little, unknown singer dares to scorn me and deride my love!”

“And why should he not dare it?” asked a voice behind her, and the face of a young man became visible.

“Carlo!” she cried, hastening to meet him with outspread arms.

He almost ungently checked her.  “You forget,” said he, “that this little, insignificant, and unknown singer loves you no longer, Corilla!  Grant, then, henceforth to the thousands who languish at your feet a few of your enticing smiles and glowing glances—­I have nothing against it, and am not at all jealous!”

“But you should be!” cried she, stamping her feet with rage.  “I tell you I will not suffer you to leave me; I will be loved by you, and no one shall you dare to look at, and no one shall you dare to love, but me alone.”

Carlo broke out into a scornful laugh, and then seriously and proudly said:  “I am a Neapolitan, and with us men do not allow themselves to be constrained to love, and no woman there dares utter the command, ’Thou shalt love me!’—­I will not, Signora Corilla!”

“You will not!” screamed she, gnashing her teeth.  “Then woe to you and to her!”

“I fear no serpents!” said Carlo, laughing, “and if an adder attempts to sting me, I tread it under foot!”