A terrible event of his life was associated with recollections of a very lovely and gifted Frenchwoman; but Corinne in no way resembled her. Every creature's best seemed united in the conversation he now partook. Ingeniously and rapidly as she twined its flowers, nothing was frivolous, nothing incomplete; such was her depth of feeling, and knowledge of the world, that he felt borne away, and lost in wonder, at qualities so contrasted. He asked himself, if it was from an all-embracing sensibility, or from a forgetfulness of each mood, as a new one succeeded, that she fled, almost in the same instant, "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," from learning that might have instructed men, to the coquetry of a woman who amused herself with making conquests; yet, in this very coquetry, there was such perfect nobleness, that it exacted as much respect as the most scrupulous reserve. The Prince Castel Forte, and all her other guests, paid her the most assiduous and delicate attention. The habitual homage with which they surrounded her gave the air of a fête to every day of her life. She was happy in being beloved, just as one is happy to breathe in a gentle clime, to hear harmonious sounds, and receive, in fact, none but agreeable impressions. Her lively and fluctuating countenance betrayed each emotion of her heart; but the deep and serious sentiment of love was not yet painted there. Oswald gazed on her in silence; his presence animated and inspired her with a wish to please. Nevertheless, she sometimes checked herself, in the midst of her most brilliant sallies, astonished at his external composure, and doubting whether he might not secretly blame her, or if his English notions could permit him to approve such success in a woman. He was, however, too fascinated to remember his former opinions on the obscurity which best becomes a female; but he asked himself, who could ever become dear to her? What single object could ever concentrate so many rays, or take captive a spirit gifted with such glorious wings? In truth, he was alike dazzled and distressed: nay, though, as she took leave, she politely invited him to visit her again, a whole day elapsed without his going to her house, restrained by a species of terror at the feeling which excited him. Sometimes he compared it with the fatal error of his early youth; but instantly rejected such comparison. _Then_ it was by treacherous arts he had been subdued; and who could doubt the truth, the honor of Corinne? Were her spells those of poetry or of magic? Was she a Sappho or an Armida? It was impossible to decide. Yet it was evident, that not society, but Heaven itself, had formed this extraordinary being, whose mind was as inimitable as her character was unfeigned. "Oh, my father!" he sighed, "had you known Corinne, what would you have thought of her?" CHAPTER II.