wife.  What I feel is very new to me:  my ideas of life, my projects for the future, are all upset by this sentiment, which every day disturbs and enslaves me more and more.  But I know not whether we can, whether we ought to be united!”—­ “Corinne,” replied Oswald, “would you despise me for having hesitated?  Would you attribute that hesitation to trifling considerations?  Have you not divined that the deep and sad remorse which for two years has preyed upon me, could alone cause my indecision?”

“I have comprehended it,” replied Corinne; “had I suspected you of a motive foreign to the affections of the heart, you would not have been he whom I loved.  But life, I know, does not entirely belong to love.  Habits, recollections, and circumstances, create around us a sort of entanglement that passion itself cannot destroy.  Broken for a moment, it will join again, and encircle our heart as the ivy twines round the oak.  My dear Oswald, let us not appropriate to any epoch of our existence more than that epoch demands.  Nothing is now so absolutely necessary to my happiness as that you should not leave me.  The terror of your sudden departure pursues me incessantly.  You are a stranger in this country, and bound to it by no tie.  Should you go, all my prospects would fade,—­you would leave your poor Corinne nothing but her grief.  This beautiful climate, these fine arts, that poetical inspiration which I feel with you, and now, alas! with you alone, would for me become mute.  I never awake but trembling; when I behold the god of day, I know not whether it deceives me by its resplendent beams, ignorant as I am whether this city still contains you within its walls—­you, the star of my life!  Oswald, remove this terror from my soul, and I will desire to know nothing beyond the delightful security you will give me.”—­“You know,” replied Oswald, “that an Englishman can never abandon his native country, that war may recall me, that—­” “Oh, God!” cried Corinne, “are you going to prepare me for the dreadful moment?” and she trembled in every limb, as at the approach of some terrible danger.—­“Well, if it be so, take me with you as your wife—­as your slave—­” But, suddenly recovering herself, she said—­“Oswald, you will not go without giving me previous notice of your departure, will you?  Hear me:  in no country whatever, is a criminal conducted to execution without some hours being allotted for him to collect his thoughts.  It will not be by letter that you will announce this to me—­but you will come yourself in person—­you will hear me before you go far away!  And shall I be able then—­What, you hesitate to grant my request?” cried Corinne.  “No,” replied he, “I do not hesitate; since it is thy wish, I swear that should circumstances require my departure, I will apprize thee of it beforehand, and that moment will decide the fate of our future lives.”—­She then left the room.

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