Corinne felt oppressed with melancholy in thus breaking all her former connections; she had led for some years in Rome a manner of life that pleased her.  She was the centre of attraction to every artist and to every enlightened man.  A perfect independence of ideas and habits gave many charms to her existence:  what was to become of her now?  If destined to the happiness of espousing Oswald, he would take her to England, and what would she be thought of there; how would she be able to confine herself to a mode of existence so different from what she had known for six years past!  But these sentiments only passed through her mind, and her passion for Oswald always obliterated every trace of them.  She saw, she heard him, and only counted the hours by his absence or his presence.  Who can dispute with happiness?  Who does not welcome it when it comes?  Corinne was not possessed of much foresight—­neither fear nor hope existed for her; her faith in the future was vague, and in this respect her imagination did her little good, and much harm.

On the morning of her departure, Prince Castel-Forte visited her, and said with tears in his eyes:  “Will you not return to Rome?” “Oh, Mon Dieu, yes!” replied she, “we shall be back in a month.”—­“But if you marry Lord Nelville you must leave Italy!” “Leave Italy!” said Corinne, with a sigh.—­“This country,” continued Prince Castel-Forte, “where your language is spoken, where you are so well known, where you are so warmly admired, and your friends, Corinne—­your friends!  Where will you be beloved as you are here?  Where will you find that perfection of the imagination and the fine arts, so congenial to your soul?  Is then our whole life composed of one sentiment?  Is it not language, customs, and manners, that compose the love of our country; that love which creates a home sickness so terrible to the exile?” “Ah, what is it you tell me,” cried Corinne, “have I not felt it?  Is it not that which has decided my fate?”—­She regarded mournfully her room and the statues that adorned it, then the Tiber which rolled its waves beneath her windows, and the sky whose beauty seemed to invite her to stay.  But at that moment Oswald crossed the bridge of St Angelo on horseback, swift as lightning.  “There he is!” cried Corinne.  Hardly had she uttered these words, when he was already arrived,—­she ran to meet him, and both impatient to set out hastened to ascend the carriage.  Corinne, however, took a kind farewell of Prince Castel-Forte; but her obliging expressions were lost in the midst of the cries of postillions, the neighing of horses, and all that bustle of departure, sometimes sad, and sometimes intoxicating, according to the fear or the hope which the new chances of destiny inspire.

Book xi.

NAPLES AND THE HERMITAGE OF ST SALVADOR.

[Illustration]

Chapter i.