wept, but without suffering—­she loved, and was undisturbed by any fear.  Undoubtedly the image of Oswald was present to her heart; but this image was mingled with the most noble enthusiasm, and a crowd of confused thoughts wandered over her soul:  it would have been necessary to limit these thoughts in order to render them distinct.  It is said that a prophet traversed seven different regions of heaven in a minute.  He who could thus conceive all that an instant might contain, must surely have felt the sublime power of music by the side of the object he loved.  Oswald felt this power, and his resentment became gradually appeased.  The feelings of Corinne explained and justified everything; he gently approached her, and Corinne heard him breathing by her side in the most enchanting passage of this celestial music.  It was too much—­the most pathetic tragedy could not have excited in her heart so much sensation as this intimate sentiment of profound emotion which penetrated them both at the same time, and which each succeeding moment, each new sound, continually exalted.  The words of a song have no concern in producing this emotion—­they may indeed occasionally excite some passing reflection on love or death; but it is the indefinite charm of music which blends itself with every feeling of the soul; and each one thinks he finds in this melody, as in the pure and tranquil star of night, the image of what he wishes for on earth.

“Let us retire,” said Corinne; “I feel ready to faint.”  “What ails you?” said Oswald, with uneasiness; “you grow pale.  Come into the open air with me; come.”  They went out together.  Corinne, leaning on the arm of Oswald, felt her strength revive from the consciousness of his support.  They both approached a balcony, and Corinne, with profound emotion, said to her lover, “Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days.”  “What do you tell me?” interrupted he.  “Every year,” replied she, “at the approach of Holy Week, I go to pass some time in a convent, to prepare myself for the solemnity of Easter.”  Oswald advanced nothing in opposition to this intention; he knew that at this epoch, the greater part of the Roman ladies gave themselves up to the most rigid devotion, without however on that account troubling themselves very seriously about religion during the rest of the year; but he recollected that Corinne professed a different worship to his, and that they could not pray together.  “Why are you not,” cried he, “of the same religion as myself?” Having pronounced this wish, he stopped short.  “Have not our hearts and minds the same country?” answered Corinne.  “It is true,” replied Oswald; “but I do not feel less painfully all that separates us.”  They were then joined by Corinne’s friends; but this eight days’ absence so oppressed his heart that he did not utter a word during the whole evening.

Chapter iii.