what you ask. Dispose of me, I am yours in life and
death."

"I knew what you would answer. You must be with me when M. d'Antoine
calls, but after a few minutes given to etiquette, will you find some
pretext to go to your room, and leave us alone? M. d'Antoine knows all my
history; he knows in what I have done wrong, in what I have been right;
as a man of honour, as my relative, he must shelter me from all affront.
He shall not do anything against my will, and if he attempts to deviate
from the conditions I will dictate to him, I will refuse to go to France,
I will follow you anywhere, and devote to you the remainder of my life.
Yet, my darling, recollect that some fatal circumstances may compel us to
consider our separation as the wisest course to adopt, that we must
husband all our courage to adopt it, if necessary, and to endeavour not
to be too unhappy.

"Have confidence in me, and be quite certain that I shall take care to
reserve for myself the small portion of happiness which I can be allowed
to enjoy without the man who alone has won all my devoted love. You will
have, I trust, and I expect it from your generous soul, the same care of
your future, and I feel certain that you must succeed. In the mean time,
let us drive away all the sad forebodings which might darken the hours we
have yet before us."

"Ah! why did we not go away immediately after we had met that accursed
favourite of the Infante!"

"We might have made matters much worse; for in that case M. d'Antoine
might have made up his mind to give my family a proof of his zeal by
instituting a search to discover our place of residence, and I should
then have been exposed to violent proceedings which you would not have
endured. It would have been fatal to both of us."

I did everything she asked me. From that moment our love became sad, and
sadness is a disease which gives the death-blow to affection. We would
often remain a whole hour opposite each other without exchanging a single
word, and our sighs would be heard whatever we did to hush them.

The next day, when M. d'Antoine called, I followed exactly the
instructions she had given me, and for six mortal hours I remained alone,
pretending to write.

The door of my room was open, and a large looking-glass allowed us to see
each other. They spent those six hours in writing, occasionally stopping
to talk of I do not know what, but their conversation was evidently a
decisive one. The reader can easily