“May God watch over you wherever you go, my dear Ginevra! I shall follow you in spirit with as much interest as if I had known you always!...” Gilbert offered me his arm, and conducted me to the carriage without uttering a word; but as I was on the point of entering it he said: “Those you leave behind are greatly to be pitied, madame.” “And I am much more so,” I replied, my tears continuing to flow without restraint. He remained silent an instant, and then said: “As for me, madame, I may hope to see you again, for I shall go to Naples, ... _if I dare_.” “And why should you not dare? You know well we shall expect you and welcome you as a friend.” He made no reply, but after helping me into the carriage, and I had given him my hand, as I bade him adieu, he answered in a low tone: “_Au revoir!_” XXIII. Our journey through France and across the Alps did not in the least diminish the impressions of my last days in Paris. But everything was mingled in my recollections like the joy and regret I felt at my departure—joy and regret, both of which I had reason to feel, though I did not try to fathom their cause. I was only conscious that in more than one way the repose and happiness of our life were threatened, and it was necessary we should take flight. It seemed as if we could not go fast enough or far enough. The very rapidity with which we travelled by railway was delightfully soothing, for it seconded my wishes. The sudden change of scenery and climate, and the different aspect of the towns as soon as we crossed the mountains, also gave me pleasure, because all this greatly added in my imagination to the distance we had so rapidly come. Lorenzo also, though doubtless for a different reason, seemed more at ease after we left Paris, and gradually resumed his usual manner towards me. He never mentioned Faustina’s name, and I had only ventured to speak timidly of her once. As we were on the point of leaving, I proposed writing her a farewell note, but he prevented me by hastily stammering something to this effect: that my absence the evening before was a sufficient explanation for not seeing her again, and it was useless to take the trouble of any further farewell. This new attitude surprised me. He had changed his mind, then, since the day he urged me so strongly to be her friend!... It is true I had myself expressed a vehement desire—too vehement, perhaps!—to break off this friendship. But he did not try in the least to profit by my present good‐ will to renew it. It was evident he no longer desired it himself. His only wish seemed to be to make me forget the scene that had occurred, as well as the cause that led to it. Why was this? If I had really been in the wrong, would he have forgiven me so readily? If, instead of this, his conscience forced him to excuse me, did not the affection he now manifested prove his desire to repair wrongs he could not avow, and which perhaps I did not suspect?