Chapter vi.
Corinne flattered herself in secret with having captivated the heart of Oswald, but as she knew his reserve and his severity, she had not dared make known to him all the interest he had excited in her heart, though she was disposed, by character, to conceal nothing that she felt. Perhaps also she believed that even in speaking on subjects foreign to their growing passion there was a tenderness of accent in their voice, which betrayed their mutual affection, and that a secret avowal of love was painted in their looks, and in that melancholy and veiled language which penetrates so deeply into the soul.
One morning, when Corinne was getting ready to continue her walks with Oswald, she received a note from him, somewhat ceremonious, informing her that the bad state of his health would confine him at home for some days. A painful disquietude seized upon the heart of Corinne: she at first feared he might be dangerously ill, but the Count d'Erfeuil, whom she saw at night, told her it was one of those melancholy fits to which he was very much subject and, during which he would not speak to anybody.—"He will not see even me," said the Count d'Erfeuil, "when he is so."—This even me was highly displeasing to Corinne, but she was upon her guard not to betray any symptoms of that displeasure to the only man who might be able to give her news of Lord Nelville. She interrogated him, flattering herself that a man of so much apparent levity would tell her all he knew. But on a sudden, whether he wished to conceal from her by an air of mystery that Oswald had confided nothing to him, or whether he believed it more honourable to refuse what was asked of him than to grant it, he opposed an invincible silence to the ardent curiosity of Corinne. She who had always had an ascendency over those with whom she conversed, could not comprehend why all her means of persuasion were without effect upon the Count d'Erfeuil: did she not know that there is nothing in the world so inflexible as self-love?
What resource remained then to Corinne to know what was passing in the heart of Oswald! should she write to him? The formality it would require was too foreign to her open disposition. Three days glided away, during which she did not see Lord Nelville, and was tormented by the most cruel agitation.—"What have I done then," said she, "to drive him from me? I have not told him that I loved him.—I have not been guilty of that crime, so terrible in England, but so pardonable in Italy. Has he guessed it? But why should he esteem me the less for it?" Oswald had only absented himself from Corinne because he felt the power of her charms becoming too strong to resist. Though he had not given his word to espouse Lucilia Edgermond, he knew it was his father's wish that she should become his wife, and to that wish he desired to conform. Besides, Corinne was not known by her real name, and had, for several years, led a life much too independent. Such a marriage, Lord Nelville believed would not have obtained the approbation of his father, and he felt that it was not thus he could expiate the transgressions he had been guilty of towards him. Such were his motives for removing himself from the presence of Corinne. He had formed the project of writing to her on quitting Rome, stating the motives that condemned him to this resolution; but as he could not find strength to do that, he contented himself with abstaining from visiting her, and even this sacrifice became almost too painful to bear from the second day of his absence.
Corinne was struck with an idea that she should never behold Oswald again; that he would go away without bidding her adieu. She expected every instant to receive the news of his departure, and this fear so increased the agony of her feelings that she felt herself all of a sudden seized by passion, that vulture beneath whose talons happiness and independence sink. Unable to endure the house that Lord Nelville no longer visited, she frequently wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet with him. The hours so spent were the least insupportable, since they afforded some chance of seeing the object of her wanderings. The ardent imagination of Corinne was the source of her talents; but, unfortunately for her, it was united to her natural sensibility, which often rendered it extremely painful to her.
On the evening of the fourth day of this cruel absence, the moon shone beautifully bright, and the silence of the night gives Rome a fine effect: it seems then to be inhabited by the shades of its illustrious ancients. Corinne, returning from the house of a female friend, oppressed with grief, quitted her carriage, to sit for a few moments near the fountain of Trevi; before that abundant cascade, which, falling in the midst of Rome, seems like the vital principle of this tranquil abode. When this cascade ceases to play for some days, one would say that Rome is struck with stupor. It is the noise of carriages that we expect to hear in other capitals; but at Rome, it is the murmuring of this immense fountain, which seems to be an accompaniment necessary to the pensive life people lead there: the image of Corinne was painted in this stream, so pure, that for several centuries past it has borne the name of the Virgin Spring. Oswald, who had stopped in the same place a few moments afterwards, beheld the charming features of his love reflected in the water. He was seized with so lively an emotion, that he did not know, at first, whether it was not his imagination which presented to him the shadow of Corinne, as it had so often done that of his father; he bent towards the fountain to observe more distinctly, when his own countenance was reflected by the side of Corinne's. She knew him, uttered a cry, and darting towards him rapidly, seized his arm as if she were afraid he would leave her again; but hardly had she yielded to this impetuous emotion than recollecting the character of Nelville, she blushed at having given him this lively testimony of her feelings, and letting fall the hand which held Oswald, she covered her face with the other to conceal her tears.
"Corinne!" said Oswald, "dear Corinne! my absence has then rendered you unhappy!" "Oh yes," answered she, "you were sure of that! Why then pain me! have I deserved to suffer at your hand?" "No, certainly," cried Nelville, "but if I do not think myself free; if I feel in my heart a storm of grief, why should I associate you with such a torture of sentiment and dread?"—"It is too late," interrupted Corinne, "it is too late, grief has already seized upon my bosom—spare me."—"Do you mention grief?" replied Oswald, "in the midst of so brilliant a career, of such renown, and possessing so lively an imagination?"—"Hold," said Corinne, "you do not know me; of all the faculties I possess, the most powerful is that of suffering. I am born for happiness, my disposition is open, my imagination animated; but pain excites in me a certain impetuosity, powerful enough to disturb my reason or bring me to my grave; therefore I beseech you, spare me. My gaiety and mobility are only superficial; but there are in my soul abysses of sadness, which I can only escape by guarding against love."
Corinne pronounced these words with an expression that deeply affected Oswald.—"I will come and see you to-morrow morning," said he. "Do you swear it?" said she, with a disquietude which she vainly endeavoured to conceal. "Yes, I swear it," cried Lord Nelville, and disappeared.