The Count d’Erfeuil politely reproached Corinne with having entirely forgotten him, by expressing herself in languages he did not understand.  “Lovely Corinne,” said he to her, “pray talk French; indeed you are worthy of such an accomplishment.”  Corinne smiled at this compliment, and began to speak French, with great purity and much facility, but with an English accent.  Lord Nelville and the Count d’Erfeuil were equally astonished, but the Count, who believed he might say anything, provided it was done with grace, and who imagined that impoliteness consisted in the form, and not the substance, asked directly of Corinne, the reason of this singularity.  She was at first a little discomposed at this sudden interrogation; but recovering her presence of mind, she said to the Count—­“Apparently, Sir, I have learnt French of an Englishman?” He renewed his questions smilingly, but with much earnestness.  Corinne more and more embarrassed, said to him at last, “For these four years past, Sir, since I have settled at Rome, none of my friends, none of those who, I am sure, are most interested on my account have questioned me concerning my destiny; they easily perceived that it was painful to me to speak on the subject.”

Those words put an end to the questions of the Count; but Corinne was afraid she had offended him, and as he appeared to be very intimately connected with Lord Nelville, she feared still more, without asking herself the reason of such fear, that he might speak disadvantageously of her to his friend; and therefore she set about taking much pains to please him.

The Prince Castel-Forte arrived at this moment, with several Romans, friends of his and of Corinne.  They were men of an amiable mind and lively disposition, very prepossessing in their appearance, and so easily animated by the conversation of others that it was a great pleasure to converse with them, so exquisitely did they appear to feel every thing that was worthy of being felt.  The indolence of the Italians prevents them from displaying in company, or often in any way whatever, all the wit they possess.  The greater part of them do not even cultivate in retirement, the intellectual faculties that nature has given them; but they enjoy with transport, that which comes to them without trouble.

Corinne possessed a very gay turn of wit; she perceived the ridiculous with the keen sense of a French woman, and coloured it with the imagination of an Italian; but in every instance it was mingled with goodness of heart; nothing was ever seen in her, either premeditated or hostile; for, in every thing, it is coldness that offends—­and imagination on the contrary, is always accompanied with good-nature.