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 love was not equal to perform. But she was mistaken; for the Count grew more communicative, and I was as laconic as he had been. I was but too sensible of the real motive of the honour she did me; my pride did not suffer me to avail myself of her favourable disposition, and my cheerfulness was far from encreasing. Thus the evening, for the pleasures of which so many preparations had been made, was spent in a very irksome and tedious manner.

From that time I saw Caroline almost every day; it was at least not my fault if I did not. The Count's melancholy encreased every day more visibly; he frequently shut himself up in his closet, retired early from all companies, or stayed entirely at home. His friends ascribed that love of solitude to the effects of his illness; and I confirmed their supposition. Every spark of generosity seemed to be dead in my heart during that fatal period; I saw him struggle against his passion with