for his departure. The night was dark, and pale lightning shot through
the sky, foreboding a storm. The Marquis could not repress his
mortification. The voices of Aminta and the young Italian, blended
together, followed him wherever he went "People," thought he, "only sing
thus when they are linked together by love. Art alone cannot give so
passionate an expression to their tones. Indeed, what sentiment can be
more natural? Educated together, always near each other, their affection
cannot but have grown up with them, so that now they perceive the effect
without being aware of the cause. They love each other because they were
born to do so, as birds mate in the spring because it is the season of
love. The spring of Gaetano and Aminta is come. How can I, a stranger to
this young girl, hope to please her? Her real preserver was not I, but
the unfortunate Tonio. Her gratitude to me then must be very feeble.
Besides, does gratitude lead to love?"

As he indulged in these painful reflections, his eyes became fixed on
the skies, already damascened with black clouds. He strode rapidly
across the court of the villa until he saw in front of him Gaetano
Brignoli. Maulear could not repress a sentiment of anger at seeing him,
and one of those emotions inconsiderately indulged in, and which
reflection often punishes, though too late, took possession of him.

"Signor," said he to the young man, "you love the Signorina Aminta
Rovero." Gaetano, surprised at the sudden rencontre in the dark, and yet
more amazed at the excited tone of the Marquis, looked at him, and in
his dark black eyes shone neither anger nor indignation, but only
astonishment at the question.

"I have the honor to ask you," said Maulear, now become more calm,
having more command of himself, and blushing at his first uncivil
question, "if you do not (and it is very natural) feel a deep and tender
affection for your childhood's friend, the Signorina Aminta Rovero?"

"If I love Aminta?" replied Gaetano. "Ah! Monsieur, who would not love
her! Do you know a more beautiful girl in Naples? Do you know any one
more cultivated and refined than she?"

"Certainly not," said the Marquis, with a voice of half-stifled emotion.

"She is my childhood's friend, the companion of my sports. With her I
received my first lessons in music. The divine art I adore. You all know
we accord, exactly. I often sing false, my teacher tells me, but she
never does."

To hear one the heart lov