from him a
solemn promise to forbear avenging himself upon his rival. This was
an important part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire of
vengeance was restrained towards one party, it would burn more fiercely
towards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist
in the horrible act, which would release him from the only barrier, that
with-held him from making her his wife.

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, the
alteration in her husband's manners. He became reserved and thoughtful
in her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; and
he left her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and to
form plans for the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted her
the more, because, in obedience to the command of her father, she had
accepted his hand, though her affections were engaged to another, whose
amiable disposition, she had reason to believe, would have ensured her
happiness. This circumstance Laurentini had discovered, soon after her
arrival in France, and had made ample use of it in assisting her designs
upon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife's
infidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented to
destroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim
to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness of
her husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she had
looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the
commencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the
commission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it was
gratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse,
which would probably have empoisoned all the years she had promised
herself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations of an
alliance with him been realized. But he, too, had found the moment of
his revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and detestation, as
to the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken for
conviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that no
proof remained of his wife's infidelity, now that she had suffered the
punishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, he
had felt suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor w