annot make you that promise for my
conscience sake."

At this reply, which I had quite expected, I remained motionless, feeling
sure that she must be in a state of desperate irritation at the work half
begun and not concluded. I, too, suffered, for I was at the door of the
sanctuary, and a slight movement would have sent me into the inmost
shrine; but I knew that her torments must be greater than mine, and that
she could not resist long.

Donna Ignazia was indeed in a terrible state; I had not repulsed her, but
I was perfectly inactive. Modesty prevented her asking me openly to
continue, but she redoubled her caresses, and placed herself in an easier
position, reproaching me with my cruelty. I do not know whether I could
have held out much longer, but just then the cousin turned round and told
us that Don Diego was coming in.

We hastened to arrange our toilette, and to sit in a decent position. The
cousin came up to us, and Don Diego, after making a few remarks, left us
on the balcony, wishing us a good night. I might have begun over again,
but I clung to my system of repression, and after wishing the girls good
night with a melancholy air, I went to bed.

I hoped Donna Ignazia would repent and come and keep me company, but I
was disappointed. They left their room early in the morning, and at noon
Don Diego came to dine with me, saying his daughter had such a bad
headache that she had not even gone to mass.

"We must get her to eat something."

"No, I think abstinence will do her good, and in the evening I daresay
she will be able to sup with you."

I went to keep her company by her bedside after I had taken my siesta. I
did my best for three hours to convince her of her folly; but she kept
her eyes closed, and said nothing, only sighing when I said something
very touching.

I left her to walk in St. Jerome's Park, and told her that if she did not
sup with me I should understand that she did not wish to see me again.
This threat had its effect. She came to table at supper-time, but she
looked pale and exhausted. She ate little, and said nothing, for she knew
not what to say. I saw that she was suffering, and I pitied her from my
heart.

Before going to bed she asked me if I had been to see the duchess. She
seemed somewhat cheered when I answered in the negative. I told her that
she might satisfy herself of the truth of my reply by asking Philippe,
who had taken my note begging her grace to excuse me for that