“I cannot!” said Evelyn, blushing, and not daring to look her lover in the face—for she knew that she was deceiving him—“the fact is, I cannot be a Catholic just yet; I should not like to confess.” “If that is all, lady mine,” said Balzano, again smiling, “it can soon be arranged. Indeed, what sins shall you have to confess, unless, perhaps,” and he laughed—his old gay laugh—“you intend to like some one better than your husband?” “Dear Balzano, forgive me, and let me have my own way this once—return to Naples, and let me go to Paris. I can profess Catholicism there; and besides, that is the only place where your bride could get the elegant _toilette_ she will require to do you honor. Remember, Signor Duca, I shall be a Duchess.” “Take your own way, my only beloved; I will do as you bid me. But, ah! I dread leaving you—I have a presentiment of evil.” He flung himself on his knees before her; and they mingled sobs and tears. How long they remained thus, Evelyn never knew. She only felt him strain her for a moment to his breast, imprint a kiss on her brow, and then he was gone; the door closed on the manly form, and the light of the kind and loving face no longer beamed upon her. They never met on earth again. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVI. +ROSSINI+ THEY never met on earth again. In this world where all is uncertain, how terrible are partings! Which of us can utter that fatal word, farewell, and not feel a thrill through the heart of indistinct terror—a vague _perhaps_, which will whisper, who knows but that mine eyes have mirrored for the last time that familiar face, that loved form! that mine ears have drank in for the last time the music of that gentle voice! It is fearful on what “trifles light as air,” hang the destiny of a life. A glance, a word misconstrued, may forever separate those who till then, were fast friends; forever banish them from out of our life. To those who have not the consoling hope of immortality in a brighter sphere, what a tangled, hopeless wilderness, must this world appear. And yet we live on; we dress, and smile, and mix with the crowd; we hide the never satisfied yearnings of our hearts beneath the rich tissues of lace and satin, and compress the sighs of the weary bosom with bands of diamonds and pearls. Such is life. We had now been some time in Paris—that city of fashion—where not to be _bien habillé_ is a mortal sin. There neither beauty nor talent avail with a woman unless her _chapeau_ be from Laure or Baudreant, and her _robe_ modelled in the _atelier_ of Roger or Delphine. If in addition, she be handsome and agreeable, so much the better; but even then, the first salutation would certainly be from ladies, and very probably from the sterner sex, “_Oh, Madame, que vous êtes élégante vous avez vraiment une toilette délicieuse._”