“It will heal!” repeated Barbarina, pressing Marietta to her bosom and weeping bitterly.

The entrance of a servant aroused them both; Barbarina turned away to hide her weeping eyes.  The servant announced a lady, who desired anxiously to speak with the signora.

“Say to her that Barbarina is unwell, and can receive no one.”

In a few moments the servant returned with a card, which he handed to Marietta.  “The lady declared she knew the signora would receive her when she saw the card.”

“Madame Cocceji,” said Marietta.

Barbarina rose up hastily.

“Will you receive her?” asked Marietta.

“I will receive her.”

And now a great change passed over Barbarina:  all melancholy; all languor had disappeared; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with an engaging smile, as she advanced to greet the proud lady who stood upon the threshold.

“Ah, generous lady, how good you are!” said Barbarina, in a slightly mocking tone.  “I have but just returned to Berlin, and you gladden my heart again by your visit, and grant me the distinction and privilege of receiving in my house one of the most eminent and virtuous ladies of Berlin.”

Madame Cocceji threw a contemptuous glance upon the beautiful young woman who dared to look in her face with such smiling composure.

“I have not come, madame, to visit you, but to speak to you!”

“I do not see the distinction; we visit those with whom we wish to speak.”

“We visit those with whom we wish to speak, and who are trying to evade an interview!  I have sent to you twice, signora, and commanded you to come to me, but you have not obeyed!”

“I am accustomed to receive those who wish to see me at my own house,” said Barbarina, quietly.  “Indeed, madame, I understand your language perhaps but poorly.  Is it according to the forms of etiquette to say, ‘I have commanded you to come to me?’ In my own fair land we give a finer turn to our speech, and we beg for the honor of a visit.”  As Barbarina said this, she bowed with laughing grace to the proud woman, who gazed at her with suppressed rage.

“This is the second time I have been forced to seek an interview with you.”

“The first time, madame, you came with a petition, and I was so happy as to be able to grant your request.  May I be equally fortunate to-day!  Without doubt you come again as a petitioner,” said Barbarina, with the cunning manner of a cat, who purrs while she scratches.

The proud Cocceji was wounded; she frowned sternly, but suppressed her anger.  Barbarina was right—­she came with a request.

“I called upon you a year ago,” said she, “and implored you to cure my son of that wild love which had fallen upon him like the fever of madness—­which made him forget his duty, his rank, his parents.  I besought you to leave Berlin, and withdraw from his sight that magical beauty which had seduced him.”