you are, when I went as secretary of legation to Madrid. Three months
afterwards I was recalled. I had run away with three women, fought four
duels, and lost at cards fifty thousand crowns. That was something to be
recalled for. It was an assurance that in future I would be reasonable.
When our youth reasons, and does not laugh, things go wrong. The King
spoke to me yesterday about you. He asked me, if you found any thing to
amuse you at Naples. I replied that you found too much to amuse you. 'I
am glad of it,' said the King, 'so our family honor at least is saved.'
Since, however, you are most ignobly virtuous, I have tried to turn the
affair to the best advantage. I have brought about a magnificent match
for you, to supersede one I have heard you were making for yourself. The
lady is rich, noble, and beautiful. She is the daughter of the Duke
d'Harcourt, one of the gentlemen in waiting of his majesty. You may,
perhaps, at Naples have seen Rene d'Harcourt, the brother of the lady.
The marriage will take place three months hence. I trust I have
surprised you not unpleasantly. Adieu, my son. Your aunt, the Countess,
sends her love to you, and amuses herself with the preparation of your
_corbeille_.

"LE PRINCE DE MAULEAR.

"P.S. You have three months' more folly before you, and for the rest of
your life you must be prudent. I have opened a credit of one hundred
thousand livres in your favor, with the banker Antonio Lamberti."

The letter fell from the hands of the Marquis, and he sank on his chair
completely overwhelmed. Like a thunder-bolt, it aroused him from a happy
dream. There are, in fact, in all love matters, certain moments of
intoxication, when men, ordinarily sensible, become blunderers. For a
month the Marquis had been in this condition, half reasonable, half mad.
Living with one thought prominent, all others were indistinct to him. To
him love was every thing. His father, with his antiquated obstinacy,
imbued with retrograde principles, disappeared like a ghost before the
brilliant reality of passion. Besides, fear of a rival, dread of the
brilliant Count Monte-Leone, who, full of love, as Henri had heard,
aspired to nothing more than to become the husband of Aminta left him no
other alternative, than to do what another was about to--make an
offering of his hand and faith. Lovers, too, see nothing but the object
of their passion; and Henri sometimes thought his father would agree
with him. The strange e