Well, and that now is absolutely out of the question, said the general:  it is indeed, chevalier.

I hope, my lord, from a descendant of a family so illustrious, to find an equal exemption from wounding words, and wounding looks; and that, sir, as well from your generosity, as from your justice.

My looks give you offence, chevalier!—­Do they?

I attended to the marchioness.  She came towards me.  I arose, and respectfully took her hand.—­Chevalier, said she, I could not withdraw without bearing the testimony I have borne to your merits.  I wish you happy.—­God protect you, whithersoever you go.  Adieu.

She wept.  I bowed on her hand with profound respect.  She retired with precipitation.  It was with difficulty that I suppressed the rising tear.  I took my seat.

I made no answer to the general’s last question, though it was spoken in such a way (I saw by their eyes) as took every other person’s notice.

Lady Sforza, when her sister was retired, hinted, that the last interview between the young lady and me was an unadvised permission, though intended for the best.

I then took upon me to defend that step.  Lady Clementina, said I, had declared, that if she were allowed to speak her whole mind to me, she should be easy.  I had for some time given myself up to absolute despair.  The marchioness intended not favour to me in allowing of the interview:  it was the most affecting one to me I had ever known.  But let me say, that, far from having bad effects on the young lady’s mind, it had good ones.  I hardly knew how to talk upon a subject so very interesting to every one present, but not more so to any one than to myself.  I thought of avoiding it; and have been led into it, but did not lead.  And since it is before us, let me recommend, as the most effectual way to restore every one to peace and happiness, gentle treatment.  The most generous of human minds, the most meek, the most dutiful, requires not harsh methods.

How do you know, sir, said the general, and looked at Jeronymo, the methods now taken—­

And are they then harsh, my lord? said I.

He was offended.

I had heard, proceeded I, that a change of measures was resolved on.  I knew that the treatment before had been all gentle, condescending, indulgent.  I received but yesterday letters from my father, signifying his intention of speedily recalling me to my native country.  I shall set out very soon for Paris, where I hope to meet with his more direct commands for this long-desired end.  What may be my destiny, I know not; but I shall carry with me a heart burdened with the woes of this family, and distressed for the beloved daughter of it.  But let me bespeak you all, for your own sakes, (mine is out of the question:  I presume not upon any hope on my own account,) that you will treat this angelic-minded lady with tenderness.  I pretend to say, that I know that harsh or severe methods will not do.