hours of enjoyment; that what the blind paramour takes for a bed of roses, is a couch whose pillow is planted with thorns; that divorced wives are always suspected-always despised; and that the author of their shame is, frequently, their severest censor. All this my good mother enlarged upon, and added ten times more; but, to my shame be it spoken, I forgot it all, whilst I perfectly remembered the scandal, and could not help pitying the poor weak woman. On my arrival at home, I eat like one who had taavelled all day, drank some Madeira and water, and was preparing to say buona notte, to my carissima madre, when a letter, in the same hand as that which contained the offer of money, was presented to me. I opened it eagerly, and shall communicate its contents in the following chapter. chapter. Poor Lady I dreamed of her all night; but bisogna riposarme, for I must not forget that I have been in Italy. CHAPTER XII. THE subject of this letter was to inform me that I had thrown my heart away on one who had forgotten me; that the Duke was, abroad, the gayest of the gay; and that he had formed an attachment for a bella signorina. At first, I treated this information with contempt. I almost justified him. What claim had I on him? It was decided that we were never to be united; but, such is the pride of a woman's heart, that I felt, in spite of every effort, wounded in the most tender point. I could not, placidly, relinquish the affections of one who had first gained possession of my decided preference. A very able French author tells us that woman is jealous, "même avant que d'aimer;" and I believe that he is right. Where our pride is in being preferred, we are even jealous before before we are in love. But the truth is that mine was an early and a sincere attachment. There were shades and links in it, too fine, too fascinating to be described, and although I was driven from myself by amusements, by company, by change of scene, by constant occupation, and frequently attempted to be estranged from my attachment by reports of his indifference, of his failings and of his change, yet, do what I would, I might truly say, But ever and anon of griefs subdued, There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, A tone of music-summer's eve—or spring, A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherein we are darkly bound. This letter had thrown me into the deepest distress, in spite of all the first attempts to parry the blow which it struck to my heart, in spite of my womanish, would-be scorn-my retaliative spirit which told me that it was beneath my dignity to waste my affection on one who was so changeful, so cold, so indifferent towards me. I prepared to dress. I looked over a dozen dresses: I turned over again and again all my finery: it would not do. I tried to make myself "look provoking," as the song says: I wished to be delightful to all but to the Duke, to captivate all hearts and to be indifferent to them all,-to make myself of such beauty, worth and consequence as would constitute me an object of regret at some future period to my inconstant. I even planned the flirting with Fidelio, in order that the report might go abroad. Would it mortify the false swain!.. All would not do. My dresses displeased me, |