"Mon Dieu! of your own. Did you not tell me that you were passionately fond of the sister of Taddeo de Sorrento, of the beautiful Aminta Rovero, daughter of the old minister of finances of Murat?" "True," said the Count. "Well," continued Barberini, "I hope you are cured of that love, for you have a rival." "A rival!" said the Count. "Yes, and perhaps a happy one." "Signor," said Monte-Leone, restraining himself with difficulty, "let me tell you I purpose to make that lady my wife. All that touches her honor, touches mine also." "I say nothing derogatory to it, but merely repeat what I have heard." "What have you heard?" said Monte-Leone, and the blood rushed to his head. "One of my young relations," continued Count Barberini, "was at an entertainment given on the recurrence of her daughter's birthday by Signora Rovero. He spoke to me of a Frenchman who is with them, and who seems passionately fond of the young Aminta." "And then?" said Monte-Leone, with the same tone in which he would have asked the executioner to strike him with certainty. "And then! why that is all," said Barberini, who had become terrified at Monte-Leone's manner. "I heard nothing more.... If I did, I would take care to be silent when you look so furiously. All this interests me very slightly. One's own love affairs are too troublesome to enable us to occupy ourselves with those of others.... There, too, is the Countess d'Oliviero, waving her bouquet so impatiently to and fro that I see she will break it to pieces unless I go. I must leave you, to save her flowers." The young man left. "I was right," said he, "not to tell the story of the night affair of which my kinsman was a witness. I think he would have killed me at once." III. A PATERNAL LETTER On the day after the terrible night during which Aminta had strayed in her sleep to the room of Maulear, two ladies met at about nine in the morning in the saloon of the villa of Sorrento, and were locked in each other's arms. "Yes, my child," said one of them, "your sleep has given an interpretation to all that has passed, and I understand all. Your honor cannot suffer, for you are chaste and pure." "In your eyes, dear mother, I am; but in those of the world, which they tell me is so envious and malicious! Even last night, when every eye was fixed on me, I fancied that I read suspicion and contempt in the expression of more than one." "No, my child," replied Signora Rovero, clasping her to her heart, "I saw almost all our guests this morning, immediately before they left. They had already heard of your somnambulism, and our servants had told how you suffered with it from your childhood. All are convinced of your innocence." "Dear mother, do not think so. They spoke to you only with their lips, but believe me guilty."