CHAPTER III.

Oswald called at Corinne's house early next day, in some uneasiness: her maid gave him a note, announcing her mistress's retirement to the convent that morning, and that she could not see him till after Good Friday. She confessed that she had not the courage to tell him the whole of this truth the night before. Oswald was struck as by an unexpected blow. The house in which he had always found Corinne now appeared sadly alone; her harp, books, drawings, all her household gods were there, but she was gone. A shudder crept through his veins; he thought on the chamber of his father, and sunk upon a seat. "It may be," he cried, "that I shall live to lose her too--that animated mind, that warm heart, that form so brilliantly fresh; the bolt may strike, and the tomb of youth is mute as that of age. What an illusion, then, is happiness! Inflexible Time, who watches ever o'er his prey, may tear it from us in a moment. Corinne! Corinne! why didst thou leave me? Thy magic alone can still my memory: dazzled by the hours of rapture passed with thee--but now--I am alone. I am again my wretched, wretched self!" He called upon Corinne with a desperation disproportionate to such brief absence, but attributable to the habitual anguish of his heart. The maid, Thérésina, heard his groans, and gratified by this regret for her mistress, re-entered, saying, "My Lord, for your consolation, I will even betray a secret of my lady's: I hope she will forgive me. Come to her bedroom, and you shall see your own portrait!"--"My portrait!" he repeated.--"Yes; she drew it from memory, and has risen, for the last week, at five in the morning, to have it finished before she went to the convent." The likeness was very strong, and painted with perfect grace. This pledge, indeed, consoled him; facing it was an exquisite Madonna, before which Corinne had formed her oratory. This "love and religion mingled," exists in Italy under circumstances far more extraordinary; for the image of Oswald was associated but with the purest hopes of his adorer.

Yet thus to place it near so divine an emblem, and to prepare herself for a convent by a week of such occupation, were traits that rather characterized Corinne's country than herself. Italian women are devout from sensibility, not principle; and nothing was more hostile to Oswald's opinions than their manner of thinking on this subject; yet how could he blame Corinne, while receiving so touching a proof of her affection? His looks strayed tenderly through this chamber, where he now stood for the first time. At the head of the bed he beheld the miniature of an aged man, evidently not an Italian; two bracelets hung near it, one formed by braids of black and of silver hair, the other of beautifully fair tresses, that, by a strange chance, reminded him of Lucy Edgarmond's, which he had attentively remarked three years since. Oswald did not speak; but Thérésina, as if to banish any jealous suspicion, told him, "that during the eleven years she had lived with her lady she had always seen these bracelets, which she knew contained the hair of Corinne's father, mother, and sister."--"Eleven years!" cries Oswald, "you were then----" he checked himself, blushing at the question he had begun, and precipitately left the house that he might escape further temptation. He frequently turned back to gaze on the windows, and when he lost sight of them he felt all the misery of solitude. That evening he went to an assembly, in search of something to divert his thoughts; for in grief, as joy, reverie can only be indulged by those at peace with themselves; but society was insupportable: he was more than ever convinced that for him Corinne alone had lent it charms, by the void which her absence rendered it now. He attempted to chat with the ladies, who replied by those insipid phrases, which, explaining nothing, are so convenient for those who have something to conceal. He saw groups of men, who, by their voices and gestures, seemed warmly discussing some important topic: he drew near, and found the matter of their discourse as despicable as its manner. He mused over this causeless, aimless vivacity, so frequently found in large parties;--though Italian mediocrity is a good sort of animal enough, with but little jealous vanity, much regard for superior minds, and, if fatiguing them by dulness, at least never wounding them by pretence. Such was the society that, a few days since, Oswald had found so interesting. The slight obstacles which it opposed to his conversation with Corinne; her anxiety to be near him, as soon as she had been sufficiently polite to others; the intelligence existing between them on subjects suggested by their company; her pride, in speaking before him, to whom she indirectly addressed remarks, he alone could fully understand. All this had varied his evenings: every part of these same halls brought back the pleasant hours which had persuaded him that there might be some amusement even at an assembly. "Oh!" he sighed, as he left it, "here, as elsewhere, she alone can give us life; let me fly rather to some desert spot till she returns. I shall less sadly feel her absence, where naught is near me that resembles pleasure."