as able to
follow the direction he had seen Aminta take. Passing beneath a group of
trees which was near the house, Maulear, with an attentive ear, followed
stealthily as a deer the steps of the couple he tracked--though he could
not see. A demon had taken possession of Maulear's heart, and enkindled
it with rage. Certainly, within a few paces from him he heard a voice.
It was Aminta's. Another voice answered. It was Gaetano's.

"How I love you, dear Gaetano, for what you have told me."

"And how happy I am in your pleasure--"

"All then is understood?" said Aminta.

"All."

"We understand each other, and you will hide nothing from me?"

"Nothing."

"Your letter," said the young girl, "made me mad with joy."

"Dear Aminta--"

"Unless, indeed, my mother find out our secrets--"

"Fear not--the secret will be kept--tonight--"

"Yes, yes, to-night, certainly--"

"Rely then on me," said Gaetano.

Maulear heard a kiss. It struck on his ear like a dagger, and gave him
such pain, that a sigh burst from his lips.

"Some one overheard us," said Gaetano, "Go, go."

Aminta immediately disappeared. Before Gaetano had time to distinguish
Maulear in his place of concealment, the latter, become aware of the
ridiculous part he was playing, hid himself in the thicket, and with his
hair dishevelled, his features distorted, and his heart distressed,
hurried to the house and shut himself up in his own room. His despair
was indeed great; he fancied he had been laughed at by a coquette, while
he thought he had been the suitor of an innocent girl. Why did she not
tell me the truth yesterday, when I asked her? said he. Why did she not
avow her love of young Brignoli? She dared not confide it to me; because
she makes a mystery of it to her own mother. Why did she encourage me?
Why did she speak of hope? What unworthy plan, what improper calculation
influenced her? What part did she intend me to play in this drama of
treason?

The old idea of Maulear--that sad fancy that women are only to be
despised, and which he had conceived from women only worthy of that
estimate--took possession of him. He could not believe he was a victim
of mistake, or that the scene he had witnessed had any other motives
than guilty ones. Of what else could Gaetano and Aminta speak, than
love? An hour afterwards, Maulear returned to the drawing-room. His
toilette was irreproachable, and his face, though pale, was calm. One
would never have recognized