noise beneath a neighboring hedge, and looking towards it,
saw Taddeo gazing at her with an expression of great grief.

"Taddeo," said she.

"Yes," said the young man, "Taddeo, who pities and suffers with you
because he knows all and suffers all that unappreciated love can inflict
on the heart--"

This was said with an expression of deep pity.

"Who has told you," said the Duchess proudly, "that I suffered as you
say?"

"Your tears," said Taddeo, "and the memory of the past. Better still,
yourself. The words you uttered not long ago in the boudoir, and which
by chance I heard."

"Signor," replied the Duchess with indignation, "do not attribute to
chance what you owe to ignoble curiosity. To watch a woman--to surprise
the secrets of her heart, is infamous, and betrays the hospitality
extended to you. It shows a want of respect for me, and absence of honor
in yourself."

"Signora, my only excuse is my ardent passion, which has lasted in spite
of time and contempt. I have no motive for my fault but my sad interest
in your suffering, the cruel progress of which I have read on your
features since the commencement of the entertainment;--that is all----"

"But, Signor, what have I said? What words have I uttered?" said the
Duchess, every feature being instinct with terror.

"Nothing, alas! that my heart has not long been aware of. He that you
loved, you love still, and his coldness and insensibility for your
devotion, makes you lament his ingratitude and indifference."

The Duchess seemed, as it were, relieved of an enormous burden which
oppressed her. She breathed more freely and murmured these words with a
burst of gratitude to God who had preserved her--"He knows nothing."

"Taddeo," said she, giving him her hand, "I pardon you, for I am myself
guilty, very guilty in still preserving my old sentiments in the face of
my new obligations, voluntarily contracted. I have, I am certain, lost
the right to reproach you with a fault, which passion induced you to
commit, while I commit one far greater. For pity's sake forget what you
have heard, and to ask me to explain it would be an offence. Pity me in
your heart. Ah! pity me, for I am most unfortunate." Then drying her
eyes, she continued, "No more of this--be a friend to me as you promised
six months ago, when we came to Paris. On this condition alone you know
that I permitted you to see me. Now give me your arm, and let us return
to the ball-room, whence, probably,