CHAPTER I.

Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the Brenta: she could not quit the scenes in which she had last met Oswald--and also hoped that she should here receive her letters earlier than at Rome. Prince Castel Forte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she refused. The friendship existing between them commanded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach her from her love--had he told her what she so often told herself--that absence must decrease Nevil's attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a dagger to her heart. She wished to see no one; yet it is not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude require peace of mind; if that be lost, forced gayety, however troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. If we could trace madness to its source, we should surely find that it originated in the power of one single thought, which excluded all mental variety. Corinne's imagination consumed herself, unless diverted by external excitement. What a life now succeeded that which she had led for nearly a year, with the man of her heart's choice forever with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest friend, and fondest lover! Now, all was barren around and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the arrival of a letter from _him_; and the irregularity of the post, during winter, every day tormented her with expectations, often disappointed. Each morning she walked on the banks of the canal, now covered by large-leaved water-lilies, watching for the black gondola, which she had learned to distinguish afar off. How did her heart beat, as she perceived it! Sometimes the messenger would answer: "No letters for you, madame," and carelessly proceeded to other matters, as if nothing were so simple as to have _no_ letters; another time he would say: "Yes, madame, here are some." She ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-known characters of Oswald met not her eye, the day was terrible, the night sleepless the morrow redoubled her anxiety and suspense. "Surely," she thought, "he might write more frequently;" and her next letter reproached his silence. He justified himself; but his style had already lost some of its tenderness: instead of expressing his own solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers. This change did not escape her: day and night would she reperuse a particular phrase, seeking some new interpretation on which to build a few days' composure. This state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious. Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw presages from everything. One day in every week she she went to Venice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting; and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for every object she encountered on her way, as if they had been the spectres of her own thoughts, reappearing clothed in the most dreadful aspects. Once, on entering the church of St. Mark, she remembered how, on her arrival in Venice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere she departed, Oswald would lead her thither to call her his in sight of Heaven. She gave way once more to this illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow before his God to love her forever; they knelt together, and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur succeeded--she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the church. She staggered; her sight almost failed; and from that moment she felt convinced that her love for Oswald would lead her but to the grave.