was come for her arrest, as sister to Count Raimond, and I must find her some asylum from her pursuers; at this time women, indeed, were not spared, and all kinds of horrors appeared probable. I took her to a merchant devoted to my interest, and hoped to save her, as only Maltigues shared the secret of her retreat. In such a situation, how could I avoid feeling a lively interest in her fate? how separate myself from her? how say: 'You depend on my support, and I withdraw it?' Nevertheless, my father's image continually haunted me, and I took many occasions to intreat her leave for setting forth alone; but she threatened to give herself up to the assassins if I quitted her, and twice, at noonday, rushed from the house in a frantic state that overwhelmed me with grief and fear. I followed, vainly conjuring her to return; fortunately it happened (unless by conspiracy) that each time we were met by Maltigues, who brought her back with reproaches on her rashness. Of course, I resigned myself to stay, and wrote to my father, accounting, as well as I could, for my conduct; though I blushed at being in France, amid the outrages then acting there, while that country, too, was at war with my own. Maltigues often rallied me on my scruples; but, clever as he was, he did not perceive the effect of his jests, which revived all the feelings he sought to extinguish. Madame d'Arbigny, however, remarked this; but she had no influence over her kinsman, who was often decided by caprice, if self-interest was absent. She relapsed into her griefs, both real and assumed, to melt me; and was never more attractive than while fainting at my feet; for she knew how to heighten her beauty as well as her other charms, and wedded each to some emotion in order to subdue me. Thus did I live, ever anxious, ever vacillating, trembling when I received no letter from my father, still more wretched when I did; enchained by my infatuation for Madame d'Arbigny, still more dreading her violence; for, by a strange inconsistency, though the gentlest, and often the gayest of women, habitually she was the most terrible person in a scene. She wished to bind me both by pleasure and by fear, and thus always transformed her nature to her use. One day, in September, 1793, more than a year after my coming to France, I had a brief letter from my father; but its few words were so afflicting, that I must spare myself their repetition, Corinne; it would too much unman me. He was already ill, though he did not say so; his pride and delicacy forbade; but his letter breathed so much distress, both on account of my absence, and of my possible marriage, that, while reading it, I wondered how I could have been so long blind to the misfortunes with which I was menaced. I was now, however, sufficiently awakened to hesitate no more, and went to Madame d'Arbigny, perfectly decided to take leave of her. She perceived this, and at once retiring within herself, rose, saying: 'Before you go, you