my delirium I thought that
I gave to this man a heart which belonged to him, and a person of which,
in defiance of his rights, another was possessed. The other though, whom
I doubly injured by this thought, had given me truly, loyally, and
nobly, his heart, his rank, his name. So completely, however, was I led
astray, that I censured the Duke for this very generosity. Sometimes,
however, my life of love had its sorrows. The Count would be sad, and in
his moments of melancholy, forgot my presence, and spoke slightingly on
the volatility of women and of their caprices. I used to look at him
with surprise, and seek to discover his secret thoughts. One day it was
revealed to me.

"'When women are young,' said he, 'they suffer themselves to be led away
by brilliant exterior, and by that studied gallantry of which the French
make such a display.' A few words full of venom escaped him
involuntarily in relation to a rival that she whom he _had_ loved
preferred to him. So shocked was I, that I asked him, if ill-humor at
his repulse alone had led him to my feet. Without knowing how he had
done so, the Count saw he had wounded me, and by increased care and
tenderness lulled a suspicion which ultimately was to rise in all its
power and agony.

"One day, we were to separate. The Count was obliged to go to Naples,
where he was impatiently waited for. My despair at this intelligence was
terrible. How could I leave this sweet happiness which had grown around
me in two months! It seemed above my power and ability. Nothing seemed
to influence the Count. I knew him well, and was aware that he never
yielded. I soon ceased to contend, and he left me--not, however, without
the tenderest oaths of constancy. 'We will soon meet again,' he
remarked, 'and in Paris: in that vast city where mystery is so easy,
and where secret love finds an impenetrable shelter, we will reside--you
still as beautiful, I devoted as ever.'"

This was the end of the manuscript.

"Vain promises," said La Felina, crushing the papers in her hands. "I
wished to read these pages once more. I wrote them after he had gone,
and they are the history of my fleeting happiness. I wished to be
satisfied that I had been happy. I doubt it sometimes, for during the
three months the Count has been here, I see him every day resume more
and more his old coldness to me. Formerly, I could reproach myself with
nothing. I had betrayed no one; and he, in his disdain, had violated no
pr