a man that he is beloved by a lady; but since you wish for better, you shall have them; I have reserved the strongest for the last.  Prince Castel-Forte arrived, and related your adventure at Ancona, without knowing that he was speaking of you:  he related it with much fire and imagination, as well as I could judge from the two lessons of Italian I have taken; but there are so many French words in the foreign languages, that we comprehend them, almost all, without even knowing them.  Besides, the countenance of Corinne would have explained to me what I did not understand.  One might read in it so visibly the agitation of her heart!  She did not breathe, for fear of losing a single word; and when she asked if he knew the name of this generous and intrepid Englishman, such was her anxiety, that it was easy to judge how much she dreaded to hear pronounced any other name than yours.

“Prince Castel-Forte said he did not know the gentleman’s name; and Corinne, turning quickly towards me, cried, ’Is it not true, Sir, that it was Lord Nelville?’ ‘Yes, Madam,’ answered I, ‘it was he, himself;’ and Corinne then melted in tears.  She had not wept during the story; what was there then more affecting in the name of the hero than in the recital itself?” “She wept!” cried Nelville, “Ah!—­why was I not there?” Then, checking himself all of a sudden, he cast down his eyes, and his manly countenance was expressive of the most delicate timidity:  he hastened to resume the conversation, for fear that the Count might disturb his secret joy by observing it.  “If the adventure of Ancona deserves to be related,” said Oswald, “’tis to you, also, my dear Count, that the honour of it belongs.”  “It is true,” answered d’Erfeuil, laughing, “that they mentioned an amiable Frenchman, who was along with you, my lord; but no one save myself paid attention to this parenthesis in the narration.  The lovely Corinne prefers you; she believes you, without doubt, the more faithful of the two:  perhaps she may be mistaken; you may even cause her more grief than I should; but women are fond of pain, provided it is a little romantic; so you will suit her.”

Lord Nelville suffered from every word of the Count, but what could he say to him?  He never argued; he never listened attentively enough to change his opinion; his words, once uttered, gave him no farther concern, and the best way was to forget them, if possible, as soon as he himself did.

Chapter iii.

Oswald arrived in the evening at Corinne’s, with a sentiment entirely new; he thought that he was expected.  What enchantment there is in that first gleam of intercourse with the object of our love!—­before remembrance enters into partnership with hope—­before words have expressed our sentiments,—­before eloquence has painted what we feel, there is in these first moments, something so indefinite, a mystery of the imagination, more fleeting than happiness, it must be owned, but also more celestial.