Spring: -I- -II- -III-
The Stamp Album: -IV- -V- -VI- -VII- -VIII- -IX- -X- -XI- -XII-
In the Municipal Park: -XIII- -XIV- -XV- -XVI-
Springtime Twilight: -XVII-
The Villa: -XVIII- -XIX- -XX- -XXI- -XXII- -XXIII- -XXIV- -XXV- -XXVI- -XXVII-
Bianka’s Lineage: -XXVIII- -XXIX- -XXX- -XXXI- (XXXII) -XXXIII-
Hiatus: -XXXIV- -XXXV- -XXXVI- -XXXVII-
Finale: -XXXVIII- -XXXIX- -XL-
XXXII
O CHASMS of human perversity! O truly infernal intrigue! In whose mind could that venomous and satanic thought have taken hold, its boldness outstripping the most elaborate inventions of fantasy? The more deeply I penetrate its cavernous wickedness, the more greatly I am seized with admiration for its unbounded perfidiousness, the flash of brilliant evil at the core of that criminal idea.
So, my intuition had not deceived me. Here, close at hand, amid apparent law-abidingness, universal peace and the full force of treaties, a crime was perpetrated to make one’s hair stand on end. That gloomy drama was enacted here in perfect silence, so disguised and conspiratorial that no one could guess at it, or trace it among the innocent appearances of that spring. Who could suspect that between that gagged, dumb mannequin rolling its eyes, and the delicate, so carefully raised, so well mannered Bianka, a family tragedy was taking place? Who, in the end, was Bianka? Am I to reveal the secret at last? So what if she was not even descended from the rightful empress of Mexico, or even from the morganatic Isabelle d’Orgaz, that wife on the left-hand side, who conquered the archduke with her beauty from the stage of a travelling opera?
So what if her mother was that little Creole to whom he gave the pet name Conchita, and who has gone down in history by that name — by the back door, as it were? The information concerning her that I have been able to gather on the basis of the stamp album may be summarised in a few words:
After the fall of the emperor, Conchita left with her little daughter for Paris, where she lived on her widow’s pension, remaining steadfastly faithful to her imperial betrothed. Here, history loses all further trace of that touching figure, leaving a word or two to conjecture and intuition. Of her daughter’s marriage and her susequemt fortunes we know nothing. In 1900 however, a certain Mme de V., a person of extraordinary and exotic beauty, left France for Austria on a false passport, with her little daughter and her husband. In Salzburg, at the Bavarian border, whilst changing trains for Vienna, the whole family was stopped and arrested by the Austrian gendarmerie. It is puzzling that, after examination of his counterfeit documents, M. de V. went free, although he made no attempt to secure the release of his wife and daughter. He travelled back to France that same day, and all trace of him vanishes. Here, all the threads are lost in utter darkness. With what enthralement did I retrace their trail, shooting in a fiery line through the stamp album. It is to my credit that the aforementioned M. de V., thanks to my discovery, will remain identified for ever with a certain highly suspect personage going under an entirely different name in another country. But hush! Not another word on that subject. Suffice it to say that Bianka’s lineage is established beyond all doubt.
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