“And Avondale,” said Viviani. “Lord Avondale,” replied the Count, “knows not, thinks not, comprehends not her danger or his own. But the hour of perdition approaches; the first years of peace and love are past; folly succeeds; and vice is the after game. These are the three stages in woman’s life. Calantha is swiftly passing through the second:—the third will succeed. The days and months once glided away in a dream of joy, dangerous and illusive—in a dream, I repeat; for all that depends on the excess and durability of any violent passion, must be called a dream. Such passion, even though sanctioned by the most sacred ties, if it engrosses every thought, is not innocent—cannot be lawful. It plants the seeds of corruption which flourish and gain strength hereafter. This is the climate in which they will soonest ripen:—this is the garden and soil, where they take the most rapid, and the deepest root.” “And think you, that Calantha and Avondale, are already weary of each other? that the warm and vivid imagination of youthful love is satiated with excess? or that disappointment has followed upon a nearer view?” “All passion,” replied Gondimar—falling back and impressively raising his hand—“all passion is founded on”...“Friend,” said Viviani, “thy prate is unmercifully tedious,”—“I half believe that thou art thyself in love with this Calantha; but for an explanation and detail of that master passion, I know not why I applied to you: Calantha is the object of your pursuit not mine.” “Of my pursuit! in truth I believe you feel more interest in her conduct than I do, I am old and weary of these follies; life is just opening upon you; Calantha is your idol” “No,” replied Viviani, with a smile of scorn. “It is not that party coloured butterfly, which ranges ever from flower to flower, spreading its light pinions in the summer breeze, or basking in the smiles of fortune, for which my life is consumed, my soul is scorched with living fire, and my mind is impaired and lost! Oh would to heaven that it were! No arts, no crimes were then required to win and to enjoy. The pulse of passion beats high within her, and pleads for the lover who dares to ask. Wild fancy, stimulated by keen sensibility and restless activity of mind, without employment, render her easy to be approached, and easy to be influenced and worked upon. Love is the nature of these favourites of fortune: from earliest infancy—they feel its power! and their souls enervated, live but upon its honied vows. Chaste—pure! What are these terms? The solitary recluse is not chaste, as I have heard; and these, never—never.”