as possible between himself and that house of doom, from which he could
never wipe out the stain of his brother's blood.

And his mother? She feared--perhaps she hated him--her first-born son,
since he had killed her younger darling. What did she care for him, so
long as she had her philosophers to argue with, who knew how to ply her
with delicate flattery?

Then Plautilla, his wife? His father had compelled him to marry her,
the richest heiress in the world, whose dowry had been larger than the
collected treasure of a dozen queens; and as he thought of the sharp
features of that insignificant, sour-faced, and unspeakably pretentious
creature, he shuddered with aversion.

He had banished her, and then had her murdered. Others had done the
deed, and it did not strike him that he was responsible for the crime
committed in his service; but her loveless heart, without a care for
him--her bird-sharp face, looking out like a well-made mask from her
abundant hair--and her red, pinched lips, were very present to him.
What cutting words those lips could speak; what senseless demands they
had uttered; and nothing more insolent could be imagined than her way
of pursing them up if at any time he had suggested a kiss!

His child? One had been born to him, but it had followed its mother into
exile and to the grave. The little thing, which he had scarcely known,
was so inseparable from its detested mother that he had mourned it no
more than her. It was well that the assassins, without any orders from
him, should have cut short that wretched life. He could not long for the
embraces of the monster which should have united Plautilla's vices and
his own.