"I knew that I had a voice. Everyone said that, and my mother had had

it trained up to a certain point. I knew that I could make a

reputation. I adopted the name of Rosetta Rosa, and I set to work.

Others have suffered worse things than I suffered. I made my way. Sir

Cyril Smart, the great English impresario, heard me at Genoa, and

offered me an engagement in London. Then my fortune was made. You know

that story--everyone knows it.

"Why did I not guess at once that he was my father? I cannot tell. And

not having guessed it at once, why should I ever have guessed it? I

cannot tell. The suspicion stole over me gradually. Let me say that I

always was conscious of a peculiar feeling towards Sir Cyril Smart,

partly antagonistic, yet not wholly so--a feeling I could never

understand. Then suddenly I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that

Sir Cyril was my father, and in the same moment he knew that I was his

daughter. You were there; you saw us in the portico of the

reception-rooms at that London hotel. I caught him staring at the

dagger in my hair just as if he was staring at a snake--I had not worn

it for some time--and the knowledge of his identity swept over me like

a--like a big wave. I hated him more than ever.

"That night, it seems, he followed us in his carriage to Alresca's

flat. When I came out of the flat he was waiting. He spoke. I won't

tell you what he said, and I won't tell you what I said. But I was

very curt and very cruel." Her voice trembled. "I got into my

carriage. My God! how cruel I was! To-night he--my father--has told me

that he tried to kill himself with my mother's dagger, there on the

pavement. I had driven him to suicide."

She stopped. "Do you blame me?" she murmured.

"I do not blame you," I said. "But he is dead, and death ends all

things."

"You are right," she said. "And he loved me at the last. I know that.

And he saved my life--you and he. He has atoned--atoned for his

conduct to my poor mother. He died with my kiss on his lips."

And now the tears came into my eyes.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, and the pathos of her ringing tones was

intolerable to me. "You may well weep for me." Then with abrupt change

she laughed. "Don't you agree that I am cursed? Am I not cursed? Say

it! say it!"

"I will not say it," I answered. "Why should you be cursed? What do

you mean?"

"I do not know what I mean, but I know what I feel. Look back at my

life. My mother died, deserted. My father has died, killed by a mad

woman. My dear friend Alresca died--who knows how? Clarenceux--he too

died."




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