So they stood at the altar, for the time being a pair of as true lovers
as Romeo and Juliet: but then, what has true love to do with the son of
a hundred generations and heir to a Roman principality?

Of course, the rose of love, having gone through all its stages of bud
and blossom into full flower, must next begin to drop its leaves. Of
course. Who ever heard of an immortal rose?

The time of discovery came. Isella was found to be a mother; and then
the storm burst upon her and drabbled her in the dust as fearlessly as
the summer-wind sweeps down and besmirches the lily it has all summer
been wooing and flattering.

The Duchess was a very pious and moral lady, and of course threw her
favorite out into the street as a vile weed, and virtuously ground her
down under her jewelled high-heeled shoes.

She could have forgiven her any common frailty;--of course it was
natural that the girl should have been seduced by the all-conquering
charms of her son;--but aspire to _marriage_ with their house!--pretend
to be her son's _wife_! Since the time of Judas had such treachery ever
been heard of?

Something was said of the propriety of walling up the culprit alive,--a
mode of disposing of small family-matters somewhat _à la mode_ in those
times. But the Duchess acknowledged herself foolishly tender, and unable
quite to allow this very obvious propriety in the case.

She contented herself with turning mother and daughter into the streets