her, by giving him this satisfying proof of her love.  And besides she thought that if he should take her with him, it would be without doubt because he desired to consecrate his life to her.  She waited then with anxiety for what he should say to her, and her almost suppliant looks seemed to entreat a favourable answer.  Oswald could not resist; he had at first been surprised at this offer and the simplicity with which Corinne made it, and hesitated for some time before he accepted it; but beholding the agitation of her he loved, her palpitating bosom, her eyes suffused with tears, he consented to set out with her, without reflecting upon the importance of such a resolution.  Corinne was elevated to the summit of joy; for at this moment her heart entirely relied on the passion of Oswald.

The day was fixed upon, and the sweet perspective of their journey together made every other idea disappear.  They amused themselves with settling the details of their journey, and every one of these details was a source of pleasure.  Happy disposition of the soul, in which all the arrangements of life have a particular charm, from their connection with some hope of the heart!  That moment arrives only too soon, when each hour of our existence is as fatiguing as its entirety, when every morning requires an effort to support the awakening and to guide the day to its close.

The moment Lord Nelville left Corinne’s house in order to prepare every thing for their departure, the Count d’Erfeuil arrived, and learnt from her the project which they had just determined on.—­“Surely you don’t think of such a thing!” said he, “what! travel with Lord Nelville without his being your husband! without his having promised to marry you!  And what will you do if he abandon you?” “Why,” replied Corinne, “in any situation of life if he were to cease to love me, I should be the most wretched creature in the world!” “Yes, but if you have done nothing to compromise your character, you will remain entirely yourself.”—­“Remain entirely myself, when the deepest sentiment of my life shall be withered? when my heart shall be broken?”—­“The public will not know it, and by a little dissimulation you would lose nothing in the general opinion.”  “And why should I take pains to preserve that opinion,” replied Corinne, “if not to gain an additional charm in the eyes of him I love?”—­“We may cease to love,” answered the Count, “but we cannot cease to live in the midst of society, and to need its services.”—­“Ah! if I could think,” retorted Corinne, “that that day would arrive when Oswald’s affection would not be all in all to me in this world; if I could believe it, I should already have ceased to love.  What is love when it anticipates and reckons upon the moment when it shall no longer exist?  If there be any thing religious in this sentiment, it is because it makes every other interest disappear, and, like devotion, takes a pleasure in the entire sacrifice of self.”