“You must know that I am in love with my husband and determined not to deceive him.  What I have just done was a debt I had to pay to the remembrance of my first love.  I had to pay it to prove how much I love you; but let us forget it now.  You must be contented with the thought of my great affection for you—­of which you can have no doubt—­and let me still think that you love me; but henceforth do not let us be alone together, as I should give way, and that would vex me.  What makes you look so sad?”

“I find you bound, while I am free.  I thought we had met never to part again; you had kindled the old fires.  I am the same to you as I was at Ancona.  I have proved as much, and you can guess how sad I feel at your decree that I am to enjoy you no more.  I find that you are not only married but in love with your husband.  Alas!  I have come too late, but if I had not stayed at Genoa I should not have been more fortunate.  You shall know all in due time, and in the meanwhile I will be guided by you in everything.  I suppose your husband knows nothing of our connection, and my best plan will be to be reserved, will it not?”

“Yes, dearest, for he knows nothing of my affairs, and I am glad to say he shews no curiosity respecting them.  Like everybody else, he knows I made my fortune at Naples; I told him I went there when I was ten years old.  That was an innocent lie which hurts nobody; and in my position I find that inconvenient truths have to give way to lies.  I give myself out as only twenty-four, how do you think I look?”

“You look as if you were telling the truth, though I know you must be thirty-two.”

“You mean thirty-one, for when I knew you I couldn’t have been more than fourteen.”

“I thought you were fifteen at least.”

“Well, I might admit that between ourselves; but tell me if I look more than twenty-four.”

“I swear to you you don’t look as old, but at Naples . . . .”

“At Naples some people might be able to contradict me, but nobody would mind them.  But I am waiting for what ought to be the sweetest moment of your life.”

“What is that, pray?”

“Allow me to keep my own counsel, I want to enjoy your surprise.  How are you off?  If you want money, I can give you back all you gave me, and with compound interest.  All I have belongs to me; my husband is not master of anything.  I have fifty thousand ducats at Naples, and an equal sum in diamonds.  Tell me how much you want—­quick! the chocolate is coming.”

Such a woman was Therese.  I was deeply moved, and was about to throw my arms about her neck without answering when the chocolate came.  Her husband was followed by a girl of exquisite beauty, who carried three cups of chocolate on a silver-gilt dish.  While we drank it Palesi amused us by telling us with much humour how surprised he was when he recognized the man who made him rise at such an early hour as the same who had asked him his wife’s name the night before.  Therese and I laughed till our sides ached, the story was told so wittily and pleasantly.  This Roman displeased me less than I expected; his jealousy seemed only put on for form’s sake.