ored her, she would
not have been more eloquent, for her words expressed all that can be
felt. My lips were pressed to her beautiful hands as the captain entered
the room. He complimented us with perfect good faith, and I told him, my
face beaming with happiness, that I was going to order the carriage. I
left them together, and in a short time we were on our road, cheerful,
pleased, and merry.

Before reaching Reggio the honest captain told me that in his opinion it
would be better for him to proceed to Parma alone, as, if we arrived in
that city all together, it might cause some remarks, and people would
talk about us much less if we were without him. We both thought him quite
right, and we immediately made up our minds to pass the night in Reggio,
while the captain would take a post-chaise and go alone to Parma.
According to that arrangement his trunk was transferred to the vehicle
which he hired in Reggio, he bade us farewell and went away, after having
promised to dine with us on the following day in Parma.

The decision taken by the worthy Hungarian was, doubtless, as agreeable
to my lovely friend as to me, for our delicacy would have condemned us to
a great reserve in his presence. And truly, under the new circumstances,
how were we to arrange for our lodgings in Reggio? Henriette could not,
of course, share the bed of the captain any more, and she could not have
slept with me as long as he was with us, without being guilty of great
immodesty. We should all three have laughed at that compulsory reserve
which we would have felt to be ridiculous, but we should, for all that,
have submitted to it. Love is the little impudent god, the enemy of
bashfulness, although he may very often enjoy darkness and mystery, but
if he gives way to it he feels disgraced; he loses three-fourths of his
dignity and the greatest portion of his charms.

Evidently there could be no happiness for Henriette or for me unless we
parted with the person and even with the remembrance of the excellent
captain.

We supped alone. I was intoxicated with a felicity which seemed too
immense, and yet I felt melancholy, but Henriette, who looked sad
likewise, had no reproach to address to me. Our sadness was in reality
nothing but shyness; we loved each other, but we had had no time to
become acquainted. We exchanged only a few words, there was nothing
witty, nothing interesting in our conversation, which struck us both as
insipid, and we found more