"Perhaps so: if you please, I was mistaken. But if I am, it is all the better; for it proves to me that you no longer adhere to the plans you once confided to me. I was delighted, too, at what I heard yesterday evening."
"Of what plans do you speak?" replied the Count, moved, in spite of himself, by this half-confidence.
"Mon Dieu! of your own. Did you not tell me that you were passionately fond of the sister of Taddeo de Sorrento, of the beautiful Aminta Rovero, daughter of the old minister of finances of Murat?"
"True," said the Count.
"Well," continued Barberini, "I hope you are cured of that love, for you have a rival."
"A rival!" said the Count.
"Yes, and perhaps a happy one."
"Signor," said Monte-Leone, restraining himself with difficulty, "let me tell you I purpose to make that lady my wife. All that touches her honor, touches mine also."
"I say nothing derogatory to it, but merely repeat what I have heard."
"What have you heard?" said Monte-Leone, and the blood rushed to his head.