I took leave of her, smitten, full of love, and almost determined on declaring my passion.  Reserve becomes silliness when we know that our affection is returned by the woman we love, but as yet I was not quite sure.

The disappearance of Steffani was the talk of Venice, but I did not inform the charming countess of that circumstance.  It was generally supposed that his mother had refused to pay his debts, and that he had run away to avoid his creditors.  It was very possible.  But, whether he returned or not, I could not make up my mind to lose the precious treasure I had in my hands.  Yet I did not see in what manner, in what quality, I could enjoy that treasure, and I found myself in a regular maze.  Sometimes I had an idea of consulting my kind father, but I would soon abandon it with fear, for I had made a trial of his empiric treatment in the Rinaldi affair, and still more in the case of l’Abbadie.  His remedies frightened me to that extent that I would rather remain ill than be cured by their means.

One morning I was foolish enough to enquire from the widow whether the lady had asked her who I was.  What an egregious blunder!  I saw it when the good woman, instead of answering me, said,

“Does she not know who you are?”

“Answer me, and do not ask questions,” I said, in order to hide my confusion.

The worthy woman was right; through my stupidity she would now feel curious; the tittle-tattle of the neighbourhood would of course take up the affair and discuss it; and all through my thoughtlessness!  It was an unpardonable blunder.  One ought never to be more careful than in addressing questions to half-educated persons.  During the fortnight that she had passed under my protection, the countess had shewn me no curiosity whatever to know anything about me, but it did not prove that she was not curious on the subject.  If I had been wise, I should have told her the very first day who I was, but I made up for my mistake that evening better than anybody else could have done it, and, after having told her all about myself, I entreated her forgiveness for not having done so sooner.  Thanking me for my confidence, she confessed how curious she had been to know me better, and she assured me that she would never have been imprudent enough to ask any questions about me from her landlady.  Women have a more delicate, a surer tact than men, and her last words were a home-thrust for me.

Our conversation having turned to the extraordinary absence of Steffani, she said that her father must necessarily believe her to be hiding with him somewhere.  “He must have found out,” she added, “that I was in the habit of conversing with him every night from my window, and he must have heard of my having embarked for Venice on board the Ferrara barge.  I feel certain that my father is now in Venice, making secretly every effort to discover me.  When he visits this city he always puts up at Boncousin; will you ascertain whether he is there?”