Elise shuddered; her eyes flashed fire, and her cheeks burned.  “Who has given you the right to insult the Prince Stratimojeff, that you call him the favorite of the adulterous empress?”

Bertram looked at her in astonishment.  “What is Prince Stratimojeff to you?” said he.  “The whole world knows that he is the favorite of Catharine.  Read, then, what my correspondent writes me on the subject.”  He drew forth a letter, and let Elise read those passages which alluded especially to the mission of the imperial favorite.

Elise uttered a scream, and fell back fainting on the sofa; every thing swam before her; her blood rushed to her heart; and she muttered faintly, “I am dying—­oh, I am dying!” But this momentary swoon soon passed over, and Elise awoke to full consciousness and a perception of her situation.  She understood every thing—­she knew every thing.  With a feeling of bitter contempt she surveyed all the circumstances—­her entire, pitiable, sorrowful misfortune.  “Therefore, then,” said she to herself, almost laughing in scorn, “therefore this hasty wedding, this written consent of the empress—­I was to be the cloak of this criminal intercourse.  Coming from her arms, he was anxious to present me to the world.  ’Look! you calumniate me! this is my wife, and the empress is as pure as an angel!’” She sprang up, and paced the room with hasty steps and rapid breathing.  Her whole being was in a state of excitement and agitation.  She shuddered at the depth of pitiable meanness she had discovered in this man, who not only wished to cheat and delude her, but was about, as if in mockery of all human feeling, to make herself the scapegoat of her imperial rival.

She did not notice that Bertram was looking at her in all astonishment, and in vain seeking a clew to her conduct.  “This is too much!” cried she, half soliloquizing.  “Love cannot stand this!  Love! away with the word—­I would despise myself if I could find a spark of this love in my heart!” She pressed her hands to her breast, as if she wished thereby to extinguish the flames which were consuming her “Oh!” she cried, “it burns fearfully, but it is not love!  Hate, too, has its fires.  I hate him!  I know it now—­I hate him, and I will have vengeance on the traitor!  I will show him that I scorn him!” Like an infuriated tigress she darted at the myrtle-wreath which lay on the table.  “The bond of love is broken, and I will destroy it as I do this wreath!” she exclaimed, wildly; but suddenly a gentle hand was laid upon her extended arm, and Bertram’s soft and sympathizing voice sounded in her ear.

What he said, what words he used—­he who now understood all, and perceived the fulness of her grief—­with what sincere, heart-born words he sought to comfort her, she neither knew nor understood.  But she heard his voice; she knew that a sympathizing friend stood at her side, ready to offer a helping hand to save her from misery, and faithfully to draw her to his breast.  She would have been lost, she would have gone crazy, if Bertram had not stood at her side.  She felt it—­she knew it.  Whenever she had been threatened with calamity, he was always near, to watch and shield, to afford her peace and comfort.