“‘Need I say that I departed not that night—that I even retired to rest _rejoicing_ that I had been prevented from listening to the rash suggestions of my evil genius, for such I was soon taught to believe the secret warnings of my better reason, to which had I but hearkened then, I should have been saved a whole life of misery.
“‘To you, who are both men of the world, there is no need to describe the sequel. Before three months had elapsed, I had become as fervent a proselyte to the principles which governed the “blessed Order” as Giordoni himself!—In three months more, the land which my father had saved with so much care and pains, and which I myself had toiled so assiduously to improve, deeming it a heritage to descend to my children’s children, was no longer my own; it belonged by promise to the holy society of Jesus, of whom I now was proud to sign myself a weak, unworthy member. During all this time I had lived in a dream—a delusion the more wild and stirring, inasmuch as I am of a cold and torpid character, requiring the most powerful emotions to rouse me from my apathy. I do not think that I ever reflected on the future. It was enough that the Contessa Isabella loved me. She told me so again and again, and each time that she had spoken the words, I had granted some concession of which I repented not, deeming no sacrifice too great to win that single smile which I had by this time learned to prize more highly than my fortune—than my very life—to deem more precious than my father’s memory or my mother’s love! I was roused from the trance into which I had fallen by a letter from my brother Cesario, which was put into my hand on my return home late one evening from the villa V——. It contained but few words, full of darkness and mystery—the restraint of one labouring under the terror of discovery.
“‘I have much to tell you,’ wrote he; ‘beware! you are deceived. I shall be with you to-night, but let it not be known. I wish to say but one word to you, and must depart again before dawn, without leaving the slightest trace of my visit. Let the gate at the bottom of the garden be left unlocked to-night, and, when all in the château have retired to rest, meet me by the tank close to the entrance. Hesitate not—I shall wait there till you come. You will find upon the first step of the reservoir a branch of the alder which grows there, which I will cut the moment I arrive, as a signal that I am waiting for you.’