my fortune places me above the suspicion of having married him for his money.  If his birth was not originally of the highest, it was at least as good as mine, and society will say that the marriage was appropriate in all its circumstances.  You are aware that I could not be married without informing my husband and the municipal authorities of my parentage, by presenting copies of the registers in Nice.  Count Del Ferice was good enough to overlook some little peculiarity in the relation between the dates of my birth and your marriage.  We will therefore say no more about the matter.  The object of this letter is to let you know that those facts have been communicated to several persons, as a matter of necessity.  I do not expect you to congratulate me.  I congratulate myself, however, with all my heart.  Within two years I have freed myself from my worthy mother, I have placed myself beyond your power to injure me, and I have escaped ruining a man I loved by marrying him.  I have laid the foundations of peace if not of happiness.

“The Princess is very ill but hopes to reach Normandy before the summer begins.  My husband will be obliged to be often in Rome but will come to me from time to time, as I cannot leave the Princess at present.  She is trying, however, to select among her acquaintance another lady in waiting—­the more willingly as she is not pleased with my marriage.  Is that a satisfaction to you?  I expect to spend the winter in Rome.

     “Maria Consuelo Del Ferice.”

This was the letter by which Maria Consuelo announced her marriage to the father whom she so sincerely hated.  For cruelty of language and expression it was not to be compared with the one she had written to him after parting with Orsino.  But had she known how the news she now conveyed would affect the old man who was to learn it, her heart might have softened a little towards him, even after all she had suffered.  Very different were the lines Orsino received from her at the same time.

“My dear Friend—­When you read this letter, which I write on the eve of my marriage, but shall not send till some days have passed, you must think of me as the wife of Ugo Del Ferice.  To-night, I am still Maria Consuelo.  I have something to say to you, and you must read it patiently, for I shall never say it again—­and after all, it will not be much.  Is it right of me to say it?  I do not know.  Until to-morrow I have still time to refuse to be married.  Therefore I am still a free agent, and entitled to think freely.  After to-morrow it will be different.

“I wish, dear, that I could tell you all the truth.  Perhaps you would not be ashamed of having loved the daughter of Lucrezia Ferris.  But I cannot tell you all.  There are reasons why you had better never know it.  But I will tell you this, for I must say it once.  I love you very dearly.  I loved you long ago,