When her affairs were looked into, it was found that she left her large fortune to Sophia Cadori; so that that which deprived her of so tender, so generous a friend, should also have made her happiness complete.  Every obstacle that divided from her Edoardo, which separated her from him she loved so ardently, had vanished.  In a few days a boundless love, a love of six years, a love she had cherished through so many sorrows, would be crowned!  In a few days she would be Sophia Valperghi!

She wrote a letter full of the joys and hopes soon to be realised to her dear Edoardo; she was happy, as happy as she had desired, as happy as she had so long dreamed of being; she made all preparations for her marriage.  Being now quite independent of him, she spoke of it to her father—­to every one; she sought garments of the colour and taste that she knew Edoardo liked; she imagined and planned a thousand surprises.  How many times did she put the cherished wreath on her head, consult her mirror, study every position in which those flowers might appear to better advantage and increase her beauty!  How often did she open the box that contained it to kiss it, to look at it, scarcely daring to touch it for fear of spoiling a leaf, of disarranging a fibre!

At length came the answer to her letter; an answer that to any other person might have seemed constrained, cold, terrible; but it was, on the contrary, to Sophia the seal of her felicity.  She was only afflicted that Edoardo should have made illness an apology, which he said prevented him from coming immediately to Padua.  To Sophia it was as clear as the sun that expressions of affection did not abound, because they had now at command what she and Edoardo had so long hoped and looked for; that the letter did not dwell on particulars, precisely because great joy is not talkative, and because the illness of Edoardo prevented it.  She made ready to set out to Venice without delay, expecting that her father would join her there, and that the nuptials would be celebrated in that city when the health of Edoardo would permit.

Arrived at Venice, she was set down at the house of the Valperghi, and ordered the trunk which contained the few robes she had brought with her to be brought into a room, into which she had been introduced while the servants went to announce her arrival to Edoardo.

After a few minutes he entered the apartment, to discover who wanted to see him; and, on recognising Sophia, was disconcerted and abashed.  She was surprised at seeing him splendidly dressed, as if for some extraordinary occasion.  Then he was not ill!  She read confusion and terror in his countenance.

‘My own Edoardo,’ said she, after some moments of silence;’ are you quite recovered?’

‘It was but a slight indisposition, as I have written to you,’ replied he; ’nor was there any reason for your hasty presence in Venice.’

’Edoardo, Edoardo!—­there was no reason!—­I have written to you!  Edoardo, why do you speak so to me?  Why are you disturbed?  Are you no longer my own Edoardo?  Tell me, tell me what is the matter with you?