"Come, come, old boy, you know well enough I cannot get on without you. If you did not scold me every day, if you did not bark everlastingly at me, like those old servants to whom age gives impunity—if I did not hear every morning and night your magisterial reprimands, I would have fancied I missed some luxury. Be easy, however, Giacomo. You saw me happy just now because my sky began to grow bright, because our fortune is about to change, because we are nearer good fortune than you thought."
Full of these happy ideas, and anxious to take advantage of the few hours yet under his control, in case his departure should be enforced, the Count went to the hotel of the Prince. His heart beat violently when he was shown into the saloon of the Marquise, and he was glad that her not being in the room enabled him to repress his agitation. Aminta came in soon after. When Monte-Leone was announced, she felt almost as he had done.
She spoke first, but with a voice full of agitation. "We had almost despaired of seeing you, Count, for the Prince told me you were about to go. You have however neglected us for so long a time that we knew not whether we might expect you to bid us adieu."
The fact was, that since the news of his ruin the Count had not called to see Aminta. He felt that every interview made his departure more painful and the wreck of his hopes more terrible.
"Madame," said he, without replying immediately to her kind reproach, "you are not mistaken, for an exile comes to bid you farewell. That exile, however, will bear away a perpetual memory of your kindness."
"You will see our country," said the Marquise, with an effort.
"I shall see my country, but not that which made it dear to me."
"You will find many friends there," said the Marquise, becoming more and more troubled.
"Friends are like swallows, Signora, they love the summer, but leave when winter comes."
"You must have thought the Prince and myself were like them," said Aminta, "and that winter was come. You have not been for a long time to see us."