here comes
my father; I am sorry he finds me in our visitor's room. Thank Heaven,
the Lieutenant is gone out! All appearance of sorrow must vanish from my
face.

_Enter_ Philibert.

_Phil._ My daughter, what are you doing in this room?

_Gian._ Curiosity, sir, brought me here.

_Phil._ And what excites your curiosity?

_Gian._ To see a master who understands nothing of such things, and an
awkward servant endeavouring to pack up a trunk.

_Phil._ Do you know when he goes away?

_Gian._ He intended going this morning, but, in walking across the room,
his legs trembled so, that I fear he will not stand the journey.

_Phil._ I think his present disease has deeper roots than his wound.

_Gian._ Yet only one hurt has been discovered by the surgeons.

_Phil._ Oh, there are wounds which they know nothing of.

_Gian._ Every wound, however slight, makes its mark.

_Phil._ Eh! there are weapons that give an inward wound.

_Gian._ Without breaking the skin?

_Phil._ Certainly.

_Gian._ How do these wounds enter?

_Phil._ By the eyes, the ears, the touch.

_Gian._ You must mean by the percussion of the air.

_Phil._ Air! no, I mean flame.

_Gian._ Indeed, sir, I do not comprehend you.

_Phil._ You do not choose to comprehend me.

_Gian._ Do you think I have any mischievous design in my head?

_Phil._ No; I think you a good girl, wise, prudent, who knows what the
officer suffers from, and who, from a sense of propriety, appears not to
know it.

_Gian._ [_Aside._] Poor me! his manner of talking alarms me.

_Phil._ Giannina, you seem to me to blush.

_Gian._ What you say, sir, of necessity makes me blush. I now begin to
understand something of the mysterious wound of which you speak; but, be
it as it may, I know neither his disease nor the remedy.

_Phil._ My daughter, let us speak plainly. Monsieur de la Cotterie was
perfectly cured a month after he arrived here; he was apparently in
health, ate heartily, and began to recover his strength; he had a good
complexion, and was the delight of our table and our circle. By degrees
he grew sad, lost his appetite, became thin, and his gaiety was changed
to sighs. I am something of a philosopher, and suspect his disease is
more of the mind than of the body, and, to speak still more plainly, I
believe he is in love.

_Gian._ It may be as you say; but I think, were he in love, he would not
be leaving.

_Phil._ Here again my philosophy explains everything. Suppo