h we forgot the
whole world. Calm followed the stormy gusts of passionate love, and we
gazed at each other without speaking.

Christine was the first to break the silence

"What have we done?" she said, softly and lovingly.

"We have become husband and wife."

"What will my uncle say to-morrow?"

"He need not know anything about it until he gives us the nuptial
benediction in his own church."

"And when will he do so?"

"As soon as we have completed all the arrangements necessary for a
public marriage."

"How long will that be?"

"About a month."

"We cannot be married during Lent."

"I will obtain permission."

"You are not deceiving me?"

"No, for I adore you."

"Then, you no longer want to know me better?"

"No; I know you thoroughly now, and I feel certain that you will make me
happy."

"And will you make me happy, too?"

"I hope so."

"Let us get up and go to church. Who could have believed that, to get a
husband, it was necessary not to go to Venice, but to come back from that
city!"

We got up, and, after partaking of some breakfast, we went to hear mass.
The morning passed off quickly, but towards dinner-time I thought that
Christine looked different to what she did the day before, and I asked
her the reason of that change.

"It must be," she said, "the same reason which causes you to be
thoughtful."

"An air of thoughtfulness, my dear, is proper to love when it finds
itself in consultation with honour. This affair has become serious, and
love is now compelled to think and consider. We want to be married in the
church, and we cannot do it before Lent, now that we are in the last days
of carnival; yet we cannot wait until Easter, it would be too long. We
must therefore obtain a dispensation in order to be married. Have I not
reason to be thoughtful?"

Her only answer was to come and kiss me tenderly. I had spoken the truth,
yet I had not told her all my reasons for being so pensive. I found
myself drawn into an engagement which was not disagreeable to me, but I
wished it had not been so very pressing. I could not conceal from myself
that repentance was beginning to creep into my amorous and well-disposed
mind, and I was grieved at it. I felt certain, however, that the charming
girl would never have any cause to reproach me for her misery.

We had the whole evening before us, and as she had told me that she had
never gone to a theatre, I resolved on affording her that pleasure. I