Her rooms were directly opposite mine, and I frequently met her in the hall or on the stairway, only too glad to have the chance of bowing to her.  She was unapproachable, however, and it was impossible for me to secure an introduction.  Two weeks later, fate was to afford me the opportunity of entering her apartment.  I had been to the theater that night, and when I returned to my room I thoughtlessly opened the door of her apartment instead of that of my own.  The beautiful woman was reading by the light of the lamp and started when she saw me.  I was so embarrassed by my mistake that for a moment I could only stammer unintelligible words.  My confusion was so evident that she could not doubt for a moment that I had made a mistake.  I turned to the door, intent upon relieving her of my presence as quickly as possible, when she said with the most exquisite courtesy:  “In order to show you that I do not doubt your good faith and that I’m not at all offended, I beg that you will call upon me again, intentionally.”

Three days passed before I got up sufficient courage to accept her invitation.  Yes, I was madly in love with her; accustomed as I am to analyze my own sensations, I knew that my passion could only end in the greatest happiness or the deepest suffering.  However, at the end of the three days I went to her apartment and spent the evening there.  She told me that her name was Blanca, that she was born in Madrid, and that she was a widow.  She played and sang for me and asked me a thousand questions about myself, my profession, my family, and every word she said increased my love for her.  From that night my soul was the slave of her soul; yes, and it will be forever.

I called on her again the following night, and thereafter every afternoon and evening I was with her.  We loved each other, but not a word of love had ever been spoken between us.

One evening she said to me:  “I married a man without loving him.  Shortly after marriage I hated him.  Now he is dead.  Only God knows what I suffered.  Now I understand what love means; it is either heaven or it is hell.  For me, up to the present time, it has been hell.”

I could not sleep that night.  I lay awake thinking over these last words of Blanca’s.  Somehow this woman frightened me.  Would I be her heaven and she my hell?

My leave of absence expired.  I could have asked for an extension, pretending illness, but the question was, should I do it?  I consulted Blanca.

“Why do you ask me?” she said, taking my hand.

“Because I love you.  Am I doing wrong in loving you?”

“No,” she said, becoming very pale, and then she put both arms about my neck and her beautiful lips touched mine.

Well, I asked for another month and, thanks to you, dear friend, it was granted.  Never would they have given it to me without your influence.

My relations with Blanca were more than love; they were delirium, madness, fanaticism, call it what you will.  Every day my passion for her increased, and the morrow seemed to open up vistas of new happiness.  And yet I could not avoid feeling at times a mysterious, indefinable fear.  And this I knew she felt as well as I did.  We both feared to lose one another.  One day I said to Blanca: