A dreadful hug awaited him; his pockets were ransacked, and he was pitched aching into the street.  Jacob Baumwalder Feckelwitz went straightway under a gas-lamp, where he read the address of the letter to Countess d’Isorella.  He doubted; he had a half-desire to tear the letter open.  But a rumour of the attack upon Irma had spread among the domestics and Jacob prudently went up to his mistress.  The duchess was sitting with Laura.  She received the letter, eyed:  it all over, and held it to a candle.

Laura’s head was bent in dark meditation.  The sudden increase of light aroused her, and she asked, “What is that?”

“A letter from Countess Anna to Countess d’Isorella,” said the duchess.

“Burnt!” Laura screamed.

“It’s only fair,” the duchess remarked.

“From her to that woman!  It may be priceless.  Stop!  Let me see what remains.  Amalia! are you mad?  Oh! you false friend.  I would have sacrificed my right hand to see it.”

“Try and love me still,” said the duchess, letting her take one unburnt corner, and crumble the black tissuey fragments to smut in her hands.

There was no writing; the unburnt corner of the letter was a blank.

Laura fooled the wretched ashes between her palms.  “Good-night,” she said.  “Your face will be of this colour to me, my dear, for long.”

“I cannot behave disgracefully, even to keep your love, my beloved,” said the duchess.

“You cannot betray a German, you mean,” Laura retorted.  “You could let a spy into the house.”

“That was a childish matter—­merely to satisfy a whim.”

“I say you could let a spy into the house.  Who is to know where the scruples of you women begin?  I would have given my jewels, my head, my husband’s sword, for a sight of that letter.  I swear that it concerns us.  Yes, us.  You are a false friend.  Fish-blooded creature! may it be a year before I look on you again.  Hide among your miserable set!”

“Judge me when you are cooler, dearest,” said the duchess, seeking to detain the impetuous sister of her affection by the sweeping skirts; but Laura spurned her touch, and went from her.

Irma drove to Countess d’Isorella’s.  Violetta was abed, and lay fair and placid as a Titian Venus, while Irma sputtered out her tale, with intermittent sobs.  She rose upon her elbow, and planting it in her pillow, took half-a-dozen puffs of a cigarette, and then requested Irma to ring for her maid.  “Do nothing till you see me again,” she said; “and take my advice:  always get to bed before midnight, or you’ll have unmanageable wrinkles in a couple of years.  If you had been in bed at a prudent hour to-night, this scandal would not have occurred.”

“How can I be in bed?  How could I help it?” moaned Irma, replying to the abstract rule, and the perplexing illustration of its force.

Violetta dismissed her.  “After all, my wish is to save my poor Amaranto,” she mused.  “I am only doing now what I should have been doing in the daylight; and if I can’t stop him, the Government must; and they will.  Whatever the letter contained, I can anticipate it.  He knows my profession and my necessities.  I must have money.  Why not from the rich German woman whom he jilted?”