"Ah, Signora, had I known—had I guessed—such a sympathy would have made me wish for misfortune."
"No, Count, not so. It should, however, aid you to bear it."
"There are misfortunes," said the Count, "which often disturb the strongest mind and destroy the greatest courage."
"Ah, Signor, should the loss of a fortune cause such regret?"
"But what if the loss of fortune," continued the Count, "involved that of the only blessing dreamed of—if this loss deprived you even of the right to be happy—then, Signora, do you understand, what would be the effect of such a loss?"
The future fate of the Count was thus exhibited to Aminta. She saw at once that this noble and energetic man, born to command, must be proscribed, wandering, and wretched. The idea was too much for her heart, already crushed by the idea of a separation which became every moment more painful to her, and she therefore formed in her mind a generous resolution.
"Signor," said she, "there are hearts which are attracted rather than alienated by misfortune, and sentiments which they would conceal from the happy, they confess to those who suffer."
Monte-Leone, perfectly overcome, fell at the Marquise's feet. He was about to confess the unexpected good fortune which had befallen him. He, however, forgot all, and covered the hand which the Marquise abandoned to him with kisses. The Prince de Maulear entered, and appeared surprised but not offended by what he saw. "Do not disturb yourself, dear Count,—I know the meaning of all that, and expected it. But if, however, you are making an exhibition of your despair and misery, you have lost your time; for you will not go. The King places a high estimate on you, and will not forget you. He told me so."
XXI.—THE SECRET PANEL.
Three hours after the revelation made to M. H—— by his mysterious visitor in the cabinet of the chief of the political police, a man about fifty years of age rang at the door of a room on the second story of a furnished house in Jacob-street. He looked like a substantial citizen with a property of fifty thousand francs—or an income of 2,500 francs at five per cent. The mulberry frock of this man, over a vest of yellow silk, spotted with snuff, and a cravat of white mousseline, with gloves of sea-green, and pantaloons of brown cloth twisted like a cork-screw around his legs, an ivory-headed cane, and all the et cetera, might appropriately belong to a shopkeeper, retired from business, living in some thebaide of the streets d'Enfer or Vaugirard, and sustaining their intellects by the leaders of "The White Flag" of Martainville, and by witnessing once a year some chef-d'œuvre of Picard at the Odeon.