“Annette dear, go and ask your sister if she would like us to sup in her room.”

She soon came back telling me that Veronique was obliged, but begged me to let her sleep.

I supped with Annette, and was glad to see that, though she only drank water, her appetite was better than mine.  My passion for her sister prevented me thinking of her, but I felt that Annette would otherwise have taken my fancy.  When we were taking dessert, I conceived the idea of making her drunk to get her talk of her sister, so I gave her a glass of Lunel muscat.

“I only drink water, sir.”

“Don’t you like wine?”

“Yes, but as I am not used to it I am afraid of its getting into my head.”

“Then you can go to bed; you will sleep all the better.”

She drank the first glass, which she enjoyed immensely, then a second, and then a third.  Her little brains were in some confusion when she had finished the third glass.  I made her talk about her sister, and in perfect faith she told me all the good imaginable.

“Then you are very fond of Veronique?” said I.

“Oh, yes!  I love her with all my heart, but she will not let me caress her.”

“No doubt she is afraid of your ceasing to love her.  But do you think she ought to make me suffer so?”

“No, but if you love her you ought to forgive her.”

Annette was still quite reasonable.  I made her drink a fourth glass of muscat, but an instant after she told me that she could not see anything, and we rose from the table.  Annette began to please me a little too much, but I determined not to make any attempts upon her for fear of finding her too submissive.  A little resistance sharpens the appetite, while favours granted with too much ease lose a great deal of their charm.  Annette was only fourteen, she had a soft heart, no knowledge of the world or her own rights, and she would not have resisted my embraces for fear of being rude.  That sort of thing would only please a rich and voluptuous Turk.

I begged her to do my hair, intending to dismiss her directly after, but when she had finished I asked her to give me the ointment.

“What do you want it for?”

“For the blisters that cursed saddle on which I rode six miles gave me.”

“Does the ointment do them good?”

“Certainly; it takes away the smart, and by to-morrow I shall be cured, but you must send Costa to me, as I cannot put it on myself.”

“Can’t I do it?”

“Yes, but I am afraid that would be an abuse of your kindness.”

“I guess why; but as I am short-sighted, how shall I see the blisters?”

“If you want to do it for me, I will place myself so that it will be easier for you.  Stay, put the candle on this table.”

“There you are, but don’t let Costa put it on again to-morrow, or he will guess that I or my sister did it to-night.”

“You will do me the same service, then, to-morrow?”