Aminta unsealed the letter, and glanced rapidly over it. Then succumbing to emotion, deprived of strength and courage, and especially revolting at what she had read, felt her sight grow dim, and finally fainted. The Countess, whose mind alone was embittered for the reasons Aminta had explained to her mother, but whose soul and heart were generous as possible, ran to the Marquise, took her in her arms, and was as kind as possible. The Prince, paler than Aminta, rushed towards the window, which he threw open, and pulled away at the bell-ropes to call the servants, and send them for the physicians. The old nobleman exhibited the greatest alarm. The young Marquise was taken to the drawing-room, and a few moments after she opened her eyes. Her heart, however, was crushed; and she wept bitter tears. The Prince was struck with terror and distress. He was alarmed for his son's sake, and a father's anxiety was apparent.
"What has happened to my son?" said he, rushing to find the letter, which Aminta had let fall. He read it anxiously, and when he had concluded, laughed loud and long. "Indeed," said he, "we have come back to the days of the Astræa. All reminds us of the Calprenède, of Urfé, or Scudéri herself. We are on the Tendros. This kind of love would make that of Cyrus and Mandane trifling. Cyrus writes to Mandane, that he went out to ride in the Bois de Cologne, and therefore has to deprive himself of the pleasure of breakfasting with her. Mandane therefore is suddenly taken ill. This is magnificent and touching; but my precious child, it is a little exaggerated."
"What, then, is the matter?" said the Countess, as she handed her niece the salts. "What a singular man you are! One never knows what the facts of any thing are from you. You are either in the seventh heaven or in despair. Your very gayety is enough to destroy our niece's nerves."
"Ah!" said the Prince, "how sorry I am for the nerves. Read, however, the letter yourself, Countess," and he gave it to Mademoiselle Grandmesuil. "You will see the Marquise is too fond of her husband. Her love has really become a dangerous passion. She is really love-mad, and if it continues, we shall have a rehearsal of Milon's ballet, with the exception of Bigotini."
The Countess read as follows:
"My dear Wife: I am unwilling to disturb your slumbers, and have therefore left for the wood at five o'clock, having a rendezvous with some sportsmen. We will probably breakfast together, and I will not return until dinner-time. Remember me affectionately.
"Henri."
The habitual coldness of the Countess returned while she read the letter. "I will say that I think my nephew very likely to inspire deep love. I cannot however conceive how there can be cause for such despair. We Frenchwomen have not such an exaggerated devotion as our niece has. I beg her not to use it up now, for in the career of life she will find it difficult to do without it." As if regretting that she had soothed sorrows in which she had no sympathy, the Countess sent for her prayer-book, and went to mass. As soon as the young Marquise was alone with the Prince, she arose, threw herself in the old man's arms, and said: "My father, I am very unhappy." The face of the Prince at once became serious, and taking Aminta to a sofa, bade her sit down, and said, kindly as possible, "Excuse my gayety and irony, my child. Non est hic locus, as the sublime Horace, the favorite of our good king Louis XVIII., once wrote. I repent of my volatility and trifling, for I should have remembered, when I think of the elevation of your mind, that something more important than the absence of your husband for a few hours annoyed you. Speak to me—open your heart to me—for I love you too well not to have a right to your confidence and your secrets."
"He does not love me," said Aminta, leaning her head on the Prince's shoulder.
"Alas! my daughter," said M. de Maulear, "I am about to make a strange confession to you. I am not acquainted with my son. His soul, sentiments, inclination, and moral nature, are unknown to me. When, four years ago, I saw the child now twenty-six, whom I had left an infant, and found his air, manners, and appearance distingué as possible, and was pleased with him, I was assured that his soul was exalted, his character true, and his sentiments honorable. I was therefore satisfied. Two years after, he went to Naples, where I procured a diplomatic post for him; and consequently I have neither studied nor fathomed his instincts and habits. What I apprehend in relation to you, my child, is a capital fault. I have discovered in my son an extreme weakness of character, which may lead him into error. For that reason, I wrote to him, that I would have preferred that he had tasted of the pleasures of life before marriage. I would thus have had an assurance of his subsequent prudence. Believe me, though, my child, I will watch over him and you, and if I was able to forgive his marrying without my consent, when I knew whom he married, I never will pardon him if he make her unhappy. The deuce! we did not bring you hither from Italy to break your heart."