the oleanders of Cordova or Seville, under the fountains whose basins are decorated with azulejos, and in which sultanas bathe, my jasmins could never sufficiently exhale their perfume, my fountains could never murmur harmoniously enough to furnish you a joyous welcome—­when you go—­if you go—­But Toledo!  My terrible castle Fuentecarral!  It is in vain that I am impenitently romantic, I would not take you there for anything in the world.  It would be as if ice fell on your shoulders.  Fuentecarral?  Ugh!—­that smacks of death.”

While he spoke, Marianne looked at him with kindling eyes and in thought roamed through those sweet-scented gardens, and she craved to see herself in that tomblike fortress Fuentecarral, passing in front of the pale female ancestors of Rosas, aghast at the froufrou of the Parisian woman.

Jose thought Marianne’s burning glance was an expression of her love.  Ah! how completely the last six months in Paris had riveted him to this woman, who was the mistress of another!  One day,—­Vaudrey had just left Marianne at the rond-point of the Champs-Elysees,—­the duke seeing her enter his house, said abruptly to her: 

“I was about to write you, Marianne.”

“Why, my dear duke?”

“To ask an appointment.”

“You are always welcome, my friend, at our little retreat.”

He made her sit down, seized both her hands, and looked at her earnestly as he said: 

“Swear to me that you have never been Lissac’s mistress!”

She did not even quiver, but was as calm as if she had long awaited this question.

She boldly met Jose’s glance and said: 

“Does one ask such a question of the woman one loves?”

“Suppose that I ask this question of the Duchesse de Rosas!” said the Spaniard, with quivering lip.

She became as pale as he.

“I do not understand—­” she said.

The duke remained silent for a moment; then his entire soul passed into his voice: 

“I have no family, Marianne.  I am entirely my own master, and I love you.  If you swear to me that you have not been Guy’s mistress—­”

“Nobody has the right to say that he has even touched my lips,” replied Marianne firmly.  “Only one man, he who took me, an innocent girl, and left me heart-broken, disgusted, believing I should never again love, before I met you.  He is dead.”

“I know,” said Rosas, “you confided that to me formerly.—­A widow save in name, I offer you, yes, I! my name, my love, my whole life—­will you take them?”

“Eh! you know perfectly well that I love you!” she exclaimed, as she frantically gave him the burning and penetrating kiss that had never left his lips since the soiree at Sabine’s.

“Then, no one—­no one?” Jose repeated.

“No one!”

“On honor?”

“On honor!”