"By death and eternity!" I said to Juliette, lowering my voice, "we leave this dear fatherland to-morrow!" "_You_ may leave Venice and Juliette to-morrow," she replied with frigid sang-froid; "but, as for me, I take orders from no one, and I shall leave Venice when I please." "I believe that I understand you, mademoiselle," I said indignantly: "Leoni is in Venice." Juliette started as if she had received an electric shock. "What do you say? Leoni in Venice?" she cried, in a sort of frenzy, throwing herself in to my arms; "repeat what you said; repeat his name, let me at least hear his name once more!" She burst into tears, and, suffocated by her sobs, almost lost consciousness. I carried her to the sofa, and without thinking of offering her any further assistance, began to pace the edge of the carpet once more. But my rage subsided as the sea subsides when the sirocco folds its wings. A bitter grief succeeded my excitement; and I fell to weeping like a woman. II In the midst of this heart-rending agitation, I paused a few steps from Juliette and looked at her. Her face was turned to the wall, but a mirror fifteen feet high, which formed the panel, enabled me to see her face. She was pale as death and her eyes were closed as in sleep; there was more weariness than pain in the expression of her face, and that expression accurately portrayed her mental plight: exhaustion and indifference triumphed over the last ebullition of passion. I hoped. I called her name softly and she looked at me with an air of amazement, as if her memory lost the faculty of retaining facts at the same time that her heart lost the power to feel anger. "What do you want," she said, "and why do you wake me?" "Juliette," I replied, "I offended you; forgive me; I wounded your heart."