“Come, my Matilda,” at last exclaimed Verezzi, “come, I am weary of transport--sick with excess of unutterable pleasure: let us retire, and retrace in dreams the pleasures of the day.” Little did Verezzi think that this day was the basis of his future misery; little did he think that, amid the roses of successful and licensed voluptuousness, regret, horror, and despair would arise, to blast the prospects which, Julia being forgot, appeared so fair, so ecstatic. The morning came. Inconceivable emotions--inconceivable to those who have never felt them--dilated Matilda’s soul with an ecstasy of inexpressible bliss; every barrier to her passion was thrown down--every opposition conquered; still was her bosom the scene of fierce and contending passions. Though in possession of every thing which her fancy had portrayed with such excessive delight, she was far from feeling that innocent and calm pleasure which soothes the soul, and, calming each violent emotion, fills it with a serene happiness. No--_her_ brain was whirled around in transports; fierce, confused transports of visionary and unreal bliss: though her every pulse, her every nerve, panted with the delight of gratified and expectant desire; still was she not happy: she enjoyed not that tranquillity which is necessary to the existence of happiness. In this temper of mind, for a short period she left Verezzi, as she had appointed a meeting with her coadjutor in wickedness. She soon met him. “I need not ask,” exclaimed Zastrozzi, “for well do I see, in those triumphant glances, that Verezzi is thine; that the plan which we concerted when last we met, has put you in possession of that which your soul panted for.” “Oh! Zastrozzi!” said Matilda,--“kind, excellent Zastrozzi; what words can express the gratitude which I feel towards you--what words can express the bliss, exquisite, celestial, which I owe to your advice? yet still, amid the roses of successful love--amid the ecstasies of transporting voluptuousness--fear, blighting chilly fear, damps my hopes of happiness. Julia, the hated, accursed Julia’s image, is the phantom which scares my otherwise certain confidence of eternal delight: could she but be hurled to destruction--could some other artifice of my friend sweep her from the number of the living----” “’Tis enough, Matilda,” interrupted Zastrozzi; “’tis enough: in six days hence meet me here; meanwhile, let not any corroding anticipations destroy your present happiness; fear not; but, on the arrival of your faithful Zastrozzi, expect the earnest of the happiness which you wish to enjoy for ever.” Thus saying, Zastrozzi departed, and Matilda retraced her steps to her castella. Amid the delight, the ecstasy, for which her soul had so long panted--amid the embraces of him whom she had fondly supposed alone to constitute all terrestrial happiness, racking, corroding thoughts possessed Matilda’s bosom.