“Yes, I am afraid you will begin to talk nonsense, and make him lose the good opinion he seems to have formed of you.”

“It is not right to deceive anybody.  If he is disabused of his fictitious ideas by the appearance of the truth, so much the better for him; and so much the worse for both of us, if we decide on marrying without the slightest knowledge of each other’s habits and ways of thought.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I think he is rather nice-looking, and his manners are kind and polite; but let us wait till to-morrow.”

“Perhaps he will have nothing more to say to me; I am so stupid.”

“I know very well that you think yourself very clever, and that’s where your fault lies; it’s your self-conceit which makes you stupid, although M. Casanova takes you for a wit.”

“Perhaps he may know what he is talking about.”

“My poor dear, he is only laughing at you.”

“I have good reasons for thinking otherwise, aunt.”

“There you go; you will never get any sense.”

“Pardon me, madam, if I cannot be of your opinion.  Mademoiselle is quite right in saying that I do not laugh at her.  I dare to say that to-morrow she will shine in the conversation.”

“You think so?  I am glad to hear it.  Now let us have a game at piquet, and I will play against you and my niece, for she must learn the game.”

Tiretta asked leave of his darling to go to the play, and we played on till supper-time.  On his return, Tiretta made us almost die of laughing with his attempts to tell us in his broken French the plot of the play he had seen.

I had been in my bedroom for a quarter of an hour, expecting to see my sweetheart in some pretty kind of undress, when all of a sudden I saw her come in with all her clothes on.  I was surprised at this circumstance, and it seemed to me of evil omen.

“You are astonished to see me thus,” said she, “but I want to speak to you for a moment, and then I will take off my clothes.  Tell me plainly whether I am to consent to this marriage or no?”

“How do you like him?”

“Fairly well.”

“Consent, then!”

“Very good; farewell!  From this moment our love ends, and our friendship begins.  Get you to bed, and I will go and do the same.  Farewell!”

“No, stay, and let our friendship begin to-morrow.”

“Not so, were my refusal to cost the lives of both of us.  You know what it must cost me to speak thus, but it is my irrevocable determination.  If I am to become another’s wife, I must take care to be worthy of him; perhaps I may be happy.  Do not hold me, let me go.  You know how well I love you.”

“At least, let us have one final embrace.”

“Alas! no.”

“You are weeping.”

“No, I am not.  In God’s name let me go.”

“Dear heart, you go but to weep in your chamber; stay here.  I will marry you.”