e dearly loved had
deserted her. The only thought that supported me in that moment was that
it would be done for love of her, and I felt thankful that I had
sufficient means to secure her from privation.

I went to the house and told her that we might dine at once, as the
marquis would be engaged till the evening. She sighed, wished him luck,
and we proceeded to dine. I disguised my emotions so well that she
conceived no suspicion. After the meal was over, I asked her to walk with
me in the garden of the Capuchin Monastery, which was close at hand. To
prepare her for the fatal news I asked her if she would approve of her
lover exposing himself to assassination for the sake of bidding adieu to
her rather than making his escape.

"I should blame him for doing so," she replied. "He ought to escape by
all means, if only to save his life for my sake. Has my husband done so?
Speak openly to me. My spirit is strong enough to resist even so fatal a
blow, for I know I have a friend in you. Speak."

"Well, I will tell you all. But first of all remember this; you must look
upon me as a tender father who will never let you want, so long as life
remains to him."

"In that case I cannot be called unfortunate, for I have a true friend.
Say on."

I told all that Croce had told me, not omitting his last words: "I
commend Charlotte to your care; I would that she had never known me."

For a few minutes she remained motionless, as one turned into stone. By
her attitude, by her laboured and unequal breath, I could divine somewhat
of the battle between love, and anger, and sorrow, and pity, that was
raging in the noble breast. I was cut to the heart. At last she wiped
away the big tears that began to trickle down her cheeks, and turning to
me sighed and said,--

"Dear friend, since I can count on you, I am far indeed from utter
misery."

"I swear to you, Charlotte, that I will never leave you till I place you
again in your husband's hands, provided I do not die before."

"That is enough. I swear eternal gratitude, and to be as submissive to
you as a good daughter ought to be."

The religion and philosophy with which her heart and mind were fortified,
though she made no parade of either, began to calm her spirit, and she
proceeded to make some reflections on Croce's unhappy lot, but all in
pity not in anger, excusing his inveterate passion for play. She had
often heard from Croce's lips the story of the Marseilles girl whom he
ha