When he inquired if
anybody knew the Countess Narona, he was answered by something
like a shout of astonishment. Never (the conclave agreed)
had such an absurd question been asked before! Every human creature,
with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew the Countess Narona.
An adventuress with a European reputation of the blackest possible colour--
such was the general description of the woman with the deathlike
complexion and the glittering eyes.
Descending to particulars, each member of the club contributed
his own little stock of scandal to the memoirs of the Countess.
It was doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself,
a Dalmatian lady. It was doubtful whether she had ever
been married to the Count whose widow she assumed to be.
It was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels
(under the name of Baron Rivar, and in the character of her brother)
was her brother at all. Report pointed to the Baron as a gambler at
every 'table' on the Continent. Report whispered that his so-called
sister had narrowly escaped being implicated in a famous trial
for poisoning at Vienna--that she had been known at Milan as a spy
in the interests of Austria--that her 'apartment' in Paris had been
denounced to the police as nothing less than a private gambling-house--
and that her present appearance in England was the natural result
of the discovery.
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