of three generations; that scoffs at its progenitors, and makes merry
over a corpse; that will dissolve pearls and wreck thrones, turn old
men into boys, and make young men prematurely old; enjoyment only
possible to giants weary of their power, tormented by reflection, or
for whom strife has become a plaything.

"What is your name?" asked Raphael.

"Aquilina."

"Out of _Venice Preserved_!" exclaimed Emile.

"Yes," she answered. "Just as a pope takes a new name when he is
exalted above all other men, I, too, took another name when I raised
myself above women's level."

"Then have you, like your patron saint, a terrible and noble lover, a
conspirator, who would die for you?" cried Emile eagerly--this gleam
of poetry had aroused his interest.

"Once I had," she answered. "But I had a rival too in La Guillotine. I
have worn something red about me ever since, lest any happiness should
carry me away."

"Oh, if you are going to get her on to the story of those four lads of
La Rochelle, she will never get to the end of it. That's enough,
Aquilina. As if every woman could not bewail some lover or other,
though not every one has the luck to lose him on the scaffold, as you
have done. I would a great deal sooner see a lover of mine in a trench
at the back of Clamart than in a rival's arms."