It was the first time since his calamity that he had seen a large assembly; and the tumult of a fete caused him such an impression of sadness that he remained a long time in a room contiguous to that appropriated for the ball, his head supported on his hand, not even curious to behold Corinne dance.  He listened to the festive music, which like every other music, produces reverie, though only intended to inspire joy.  The Count d’Erfeuil arrived, quite enchanted at the sight of a ball, which produced in him some recollections of France.—­“I have tried all I could,” said he to Lord Nelville, “to discover something interesting in these ruins of which they talk so much, and I can really find no charm in them.  It must be the effect of a very great prejudice to admire those heaps of rubbish covered with thorns.  I shall speak my mind of them when I return to Paris, for it is time that this Italian delusion should cease.  There is not a monument now standing whole in any part of Europe, that I would not sooner see than those old stumps of pillars, those bas-reliefs, all black with time, which can only be admired by dint of erudition.  A pleasure which must be bought with so much study, does not appear to me very lively in itself—­to be charmed with the sights of Paris, nobody need grow pale over books.”  Lord Nelville made no reply.—­The Count interrogated him afresh, as to the impression that Rome produced on him.  “In the midst of a ball,” said Oswald, “is not the most proper time for serious conversation on this subject; and you know that I am incapable of any other.”—­“Well and good:”  replied the Count d’Erfeuil, “I am more gay than you I admit; but who knows whether I am not also the more wise of the two?  Believe me, there is much philosophy in my apparent levity:  it is the way we should take life.”—­“You are perhaps in the right,” answered Oswald, “but it is from nature, and not from reflection, that you acquire that way of thinking; and that is why your manner of taking life may only suit yourself.”

The Count d’Erfeuil heard the name of Corinne mentioned in the ball room, and entered it to know what was going forward.  Lord Nelville advanced as far as the door, and beheld the Prince Amalfi, a Neapolitan of the most handsome figure, who besought Corinne to dance with him the Tarantula, a Neapolitan dance full of grace and originality.  The friends of Corinne besought her also to comply with his request.  She yielded to their desire without waiting to be asked frequently, which astonished the Count d’Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals with which it is customary to precede consenting to a request of this nature.  But in Italy, these kind of graces are unknown, and all believe they please most in society by showing an eagerness to do what is asked of them.  Corinne would have invented this natural behaviour if she were not already accustomed to it.  The dress she had chosen for the ball was elegant and light; her hair was gathered