nsolation, or
rather suffers herself to be consoled. Then, opening her wings like the
butterfly, she hurries to find the pleasure she calls and expects."

The tone, rather than the language, of this conversation terrified and
amazed Aminta.

The Prince observed this. "Did she love him really?" he said; and
touched with this idea, he added--

"All that I say, madame, is a general remark, the application of which I
make to no one, least of all to yourself."

"Signor," said Aminta, rising, "I do not understand you."

"Certainly," said the Prince, "you do not understand that one who loves
you should cease to do so. That is what I had the honor to tell you just
now. The Marquis, though, is very young and inexperienced. He believes
in love, as men of twenty-five usually do. This explains to me the
apparent rigidness of his words, and unveils the mystery of his
pretended wisdom. I do not, however, wish to make a person so charming
as you are desperate; and perhaps I do you a great favor in warning you
against future dangers and mischances."

"Signor," said Aminta, trembling with emotion, "I cannot guess why you
speak to me thus; but I perceive that you do not know me."

The Prince said, with a smile, "I speak to a charming woman, to one of
earth's angels, whom some lucky mortals meet with, and who by their
tenderness reveal all the pleasures and joys promised to the faithful by
the houris of divine Providence."

"Signor," said Aminta, looking at the Prince with an expression in which
both indignation and contempt were visible, "unused as I am to such
language, though I scarcely understand it, my reason and good sense tell
me you would speak thus only to the mistress of the Marquis de Maulear."

"True," said the Prince, "and I speak now to the most charming mistress
imaginable."

"Me! do you speak thus to me, Signor?" said the young woman, with a
painful accent. "And you thought----?"

"Who then are you, madame!" asked the old man, with surprise and terror
at Aminta's tone.

"Who is she, monsieur?" said the Marquis, coming from a neighboring
alley, where, pale and terrified, he had for some time been listening to
this conversation, "she is my wife, the _Marquise de Maulear_!"

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the Prince he could not have
been more surprised. The blood left his face, and he supported himself
against the back of his chair.

"Henri," said Aminta, "tell this man again that he has dared to in