"I will never pardon you, be your motives what they may!" cried Mlle. d' Armilly, vindictively. "His presence ruined the performance and disgraced me, me, Louise d' Armilly, in the eyes of all Rome!"
The Captain stood speechless, appalled by her fury. White with rage, her eyes flashing and her bosom heaving, she looked like some beautiful demon.
"I would have triumphed as usual had he not been here," she continued, furiously and bitterly, "and to-morrow the Eternal City would have been at my feet, I would have been an acknowledged queen, nay, even greater than any sovereign alive, but now I have failed and am nothing! Captain Joliette, for all this you are to blame, and yet you think you deserve pardon for your motives! Why, man, you are worse than an idiot! No, I will never pardon you, never!"
She strode about the dressing-room as she spoke, her small, white hands working as if ready to tear the young soldier to pieces. Joliette watched her for an instant and then said: "You are a singular creature, Louise, a problem that I must admit I cannot solve. What is the Count of Monte-Cristo to you that you swoon at the mere sight of him? You certainly could not have been in any way associated with his past life, have suffered from the signal vengeance he took upon his enemies years ago!"
Mlle. d' Armilly paused suddenly in her excited walk, and, seizing the Captain by the arm with so strong a clutch that a thrill of pain shot through him, cried, menacingly: "If you dare to mention Monte-Cristo's fiendish vengeance to me again, I will banish you forever from my presence!"
At that moment one of the officials of the theatre appeared at the dressing-room door.
"A note for mademoiselle," said he, bowing profoundly.
The prima donna took the missive from the man and glanced at the address upon the envelope. As she did so, she knitted her brows and cried out: "His handwriting! Another insult! I will not read it!"
The official withdrew in confusion.
"Whose handwriting?" asked Joliette, his curiosity and jealousy simultaneously excited. Mlle. d' Armilly had frequently referred to her numerous admirers and the letters she received from them, and the Captain naturally jumped to the conclusion that this note had been sent by some ardent Roman suitor. He considered the artiste's exclamation and assumption of displeasure as mere artful tricks designed to deceive him.
"Whose handwriting?" repeated Mlle. d' Armilly; scornfully. "Must I explain everything to you?"
The young man had borne all his companion in her anger had heaped upon him with comparative equanimity, but he could not bear the idea of a rival, the very thought was torture.