retain. Will you aid me then, yes or no? Aid me, and you shall indeed
be free. The magician will release the fair spirit he has bound to his
will. Aid me not, /ma chere/, and mark, I do not threaten--I do but
warn--aid me not; grant that I become a beggar, and ask yourself what is
to become of you,--still young, still beautiful, and still penniless?
Nay, worse than penniless; you have done me the honour," and here the
count, looking on the table, drew a letter from a portfolio emblazoned
with his arms and coronet,--"you have done me the honour to consult me as
to your debts."

"You will restore my fortune?" said the marchesa, irresolutely,--and
averting her head from an odious schedule of figures.

"When my own, with your aid, is secured."

"But do you not overrate the value of my aid?"

"Possibly," said the count, with a caressing suavity--and he kissed his
sister's forehead. "Possibly; but, by my honour, I wish to repair to you
any wrong, real or supposed, I may have done you in past times. I wish
to find again my own dear sister. I may over-value your aid, but not the
affection from which it comes. Let us be friends, /cara Beatrice mia/,"
added the count, for the first time employing Italian words.

The marchesa laid her head on his shoulder, and her tears flowed softly.
Evidently this man had great influence over her,--and evidently, whatever
her cause for complaint, her affection for him was still sisterly and
strong. A nature with fine flashes of generosity, spirit, honour, and
passion was hers; but uncultured, unguided, spoilt by the worst social
examples, easily led into wrong, not always aware where the wrong was,