Look at this fragile grandeur,
And cease at last to admire
The pompous shining of a city
Where all feign to adore thee."

"Know that Fortune is light and inconstant;
A deceiver who delights
in cruel reverses;
She is seen to abuse the wise man, the vulgar
Insolently playing with all this weak universe.
To-day it is on my head
That she lets her favors fall,
By to-morrow she will be prepared
To carry them elsewhere."

"Does she fix on me her wayward fickleness,
My heart will be grateful for the good she does me;
Does she wish to show elsewhere her benevolence,
I give her back her gifts without pain--without regret.
Filled with strongest virtue,
I will espouse Poverty,
If for dower she brings me
Honor and probity."]


The paper fell from the count's hand and he looked at it
thoughtfully. An expression of deep emotion rested upon his
countenance, which, in spite of his fifty years, could still be
called handsome--as he repeated in a low, trembling voice: