Early in April, 1821, a man of about forty sat on a bench in a little garden attached to a modest country abode near Neuilly. The garden was on the Seine, which was the limit of a kind of town. The man of whom we speak was almost bent beneath the double weight of grief and suffering. His features were sharp and thin, his eyes sunken, and his hair, almost white, gave him the appearance of one far more advanced in age. In this person prematurely old and wretched, none would have recognized the brilliant and elegant Count Monte-Leone, who once had been so deservedly admired. A deep sorrow had crushed his strong constitution--months to him had become years--and he had suffered all that a mind, richly endowed as his was, could. Pursued by the atrocious slanders we refer to, he had given way beneath the blow. In vain had he striven for some time after his useless visit to the Prefect against them. The hideous monster which pursued him redoubled its attacks, and cries of reprobation burst from every lip. The relations and friends of the prisoners reproached him, and adversity seemed to have seized him with its iron claw. In vain did he protest and call for proof. All appealed to the circumstances. His many duels made people say in his favor only this, "_Brave as he is, he is a spy!_" Despair, then, took possession of him, and he fled from the world which cursed him, and hid himself. One reason alone restrained him from suicide. This was, that he knew another life depended on his, and clung to it as the ivy does to the oak. The Count lived that another might not die. This person was an angel rather than a woman. It was Aminta. Watching the unfortunate man as a mother watches a child, braving the public opinion which dishonored him she adored, Aminta rarely left the Count, whose tears fell on her heart like burning lava. The Marquise had purchased an establishment near the house of Monte-Leone, with whom she passed all her time; for her visits made his desolate heart more serene. On the day we speak of, the Count sat in the garden, and old Giacomo advanced towards him, taking care to announce himself with a slight cough. "Monseigneur," said he, "it is I, your intendant. I am come to speak to you." "I have no intendant," said the Count, "a miserable outlaw like myself can indulge in no such luxury. Do not call me Monseigneur; the title now is become an ironical insult." "It, however, is your excellency's name, and _that_ the slanderous villains cannot deprive you of." "They have done more than that," said the Count, with a bitter smile; "they have destroyed my honor. You shall not call me thus any longer." "Very well," said the good man, whom the Marquise had told not to thwart his master; "I will call Monseigneur, Count only. You are Monseigneur, for all that." "Enough," said the Count, "go away, you fatigue me, you injure me." "I injure you," said Giacomo, "when you know I would die for you?"