ry serious
kind, the guests of the Duke d'Harcourt experienced a kind of mute
terror, which in this world always precedes misfortune.

The strange power which the doctor used was also well calculated to
impress those who contemplated this scene. The doctor took Aminta's hand
in his and said most respectfully:[G]

"Does the Marquise understand me?"

"Yes!" said she.

"Will you answer my questions?"

"Yes!"

"Do you read in my heart any malevolence or hostility to you?"

"No!"

"You then have confidence in me?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure that in questioning you, as I am about to, I have no other
object but to relieve you of uneasiness in relation to the Marquis?"

"I am sure that is the case."

"Well," said the Doctor, placing his thumbs on Aminta's forehead, "I
wish you to go at once to Rome, to Italy."

"It is far away," said the Marquise, feebly.

"I wish you to," said Matheus, imperiously.

"Well, well," said the sleeper, with a smile, "there is no reason why
you should be angry."

She was silent. All the spectators, with their eyes fixed and their
necks extended, seemed to watch with anxiety every scene of this
whimsical drama. Their souls seemed hung on their lips.

"Ah! my God!" said the Marquise, with agitation, "what a journey--how
cold it is amid these mountains."

"She crosses the Alps," said the doctor.

The Marquise coughed.

"You see," said Marie, "she will take cold." The young girl wrapped the
shawl around her friend.

"This cold will not be dangerous," said the Vicomte, gayly.

"Silence!" said Matheus.

"Ah!" said the somnambulist, "what a magnificent country! What a sun!
This then is Rome," said she, with enthusiasm, "the city of the
Caesars--the eternal city--the city of God!"

She bowed herself respectfully.

"True," said Matheus, "and now you must find him you love; you must look
for your husband amid this vast city."

"No, no!" said the Marquise.

"Why not?"

"I shall lose myself amid these long streets; besides I am afraid of
these men in masks."

"Do not fear. I _wish_ you to see the Marquis at once."

The Marquise clasped the bracelet of her husband's hair convulsively,
and then uttering a cry of joy, said:

"It is he--Henri, Henri, I see him."

She extended her arms as if to embrace him. The flush which had covered
her face was soon succeeded by a mortal pallor.

"What is the matter?" asked the doctor.

"Oh God!" said she, "he does not see me. He passes