Before evening fell, I had the desired information.
Wanda was still fully dressed when I returned. She reclined on the
ottoman, her face buried in her hands, her hair in a wild tangle,
like the red mane of a lioness.
“What is his name?” she asked, uncanny calm.
“Alexis Papadopolis.”
“A Greek, then,”
I nodded.
“He is very young?”
“Scarcely older than you. They say he was educated in Paris, and
that he is an atheist. He fought against the Turks in Candia, and is
said to have distinguished himself there no less by his race-hatred
and cruelty, than by his bravery.”
“All in all, then, a man,” she cried with sparkling eyes.
“At present he is living in Florence,” I continued, “he is said to
be tremendously rich–”
“I didn’t ask you about that,” she interrupted quickly and sharply.
“The man is dangerous. Aren’t you afraid of him? I am afraid of him.
Has he a wife?”
“No.”
“A mistress?”
“No.”
“What theaters does he attend?”
“To-night he will be at the Nicolini Theater, where Virginia Marini
and Salvini are acting; they are the greatest living artists in
Italy, perhaps in Europe.
“See that you get a box–and be quick about it!” she commanded.
“But, mistress–”
“Do you want a taste of the whip?”
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