In the second act, Juliet has an interview with Romeo from a balcony in her garden. Of all Corinne's ornaments, none but the flowers were left; and even they were scarce visible, as the theatre was faintly illumined in imitation of moonlight, and the countenance of the fond Italian veiled in tender gloom. Her voice sounded still more sweetly than it had done amid the splendors of the fête. Her hand, raised towards the stars, seemed invoking them, as alone worthy of her confidence; and when she repeated, "Oh, Romeo, Romeo!" certain as Oswald felt that it was of him she thought, he was jealous that any other name than his own should be breathed by tones so delicious. She sat in front of the balcony; the actor who played Romeo was somewhat in the shade; all the glances of Corinne fell on her beloved, as she spoke those entrancing lines:-- "In truth, fair Montague! I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those who have more cunning to be strange." * * * * * "Therefore--pardon me!" At those words, "pardon me!" for loving, for letting thee know it--so tender an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne, such respect for her lover, such pride in her "fair Montague," that Oswald raised his head, and believed himself the monarch of the world, since he reigned over a heart inclosing all the treasures of love and life. Corinne, perceiving the effect this took on him, became doubly animated by that heartfelt enthusiasm, which, of itself can work such miracles; and when, at the approach of day, Juliet fancies that she hears the lark, the signal for Romeo's departure,[1] the accents of Corinne acquired a superhuman power; they told of love, indeed, but a religious mystery was now mingled with it; recollections of heaven--a presage of returning thither--the celestial grief of a soul exiled on earth, and soon to be reclaimed by its diviner home. Ah, how happy was Corinne, while playing so noble a part before the lover of her choice! How few lives can bear a comparison with one such night! Had Oswald himself been the Romeo, her pleasure could not have been so complete. She would have longed to break through the greatest poet's verse, and speak after her own heart; or perhaps the diffidence of love would have enchained her genius; truth carried to such a height would have destroyed illusion; but how sweet was the consciousness of his presence, while she was influenced by the exalted impulses which poetry alone can awaken, giving us all the excitement, without the anguish, of reality; while the affections she portrayed were neither wholly personal nor entirely abstract, but seemed saying to her Oswald. "Behold, how capable I am of loving!" It was impossible for her to be perfectly at ease in her own situation. Passion and modesty alternately impelled and restrained her, now piquing her pride, now enforcing its submission; but thus to