lse tranquillity, the
recompense for which she found in solitary tears. The Marquis seemed ill
at ease. He had for some days been as moody as possible. His absence
became every day more frequent, and the sudden departure of the Countess
made his situation very annoying to both of them. Not a word was said
for some moments. Henri sat with his eyes fixed on a paper, though he
did not read, and Aminta convulsively twisted between her fingers a kind
of work which just then was fashionable. Her eyes however occasionally
strayed to her husband's face, on which they rested with anxiety. As she
thus examined him, the features of Henri finally assumed such an
expression of despair that Aminta could not repress her sorrow, and
said, "What _is_ the matter? are you in pain?"

"I? not at all! I am well--very well," said the Marquis. "I have
something of importance to attend to," and he added, as he looked at
the clock, "I am already rather late."

Aminta, in a supplicating tone, said, "Henri, once the most important
business of your life was to be with me."

"The business which calls me out is by no means as pleasant as that
would be."

"I wish I thought so," said Aminta--"for the needle of jealousy had
entered her heart.

"Aminta," said Maulear, looking at her, "what is the matter? what do you
mean?"

"That I am afraid I have lost the greatest blessing of life in a
marriage like ours, and that, when my confidence in you is lost,
happiness is gone for ever."

"And why have you lost it?" said Maulear.

"You have yourself destroyed it. You, whom I thought so frank--you, in
the oaths of whom I had confidence--for whom I abandoned my mother and
my country," said she, with tears. "You, against whose love I contended,
for I was afraid I would not be happy, or rather that you would not be.
Alas! I am now sure of this. Your coldness, your indifference, your
abandonment, tell me so more distinctly than your tongue could. Yet I
had rather you should say so, for there would at least be boldness in
the confession, while meanness is the element of dissimulation."

The head of the poor young woman fell on her shoulder, and she shed
bitter tears.

"Aminta," said Henri, as he drew near and sought to take her hand, "I
swear that I have not deceived you."

Aminta looked towards him with a countenance lighted up with joy, but a
frightful thought, the recollection of the letter, pierced her heart
like an arrow.

"He deceives me," said