“He is not jealous.  You know Frenchmen are not.”

“A man of honour is the same in France, and England, and Italy, and all the world over.  If he loved you, would he have left you penniless in this fashion?  What would you do, if I were inclined to play the brutal lover?  You may speak freely.”

“I should defend myself.”

“Very good; then I should abandon you here, and what would you do then?  You are pretty, you are a woman of sensibility, but many men would take but little account of your virtue.  Your lover has left you to me; for all he knew I might be the vilest wretch; but as it is, cheer up, you have nothing to fear.

“How can you think that adventurer loves you?  He is a mere monster.  I am sorry that what I say makes you weep, but it must be said.  I even dare tell you that I have taken a great liking to you; but you may feel quite sure that I shall not ask you to give me so much as a kiss, and I will never abandon you.  Before we get to Rome I shall convince you that the count, as he calls himself, not only does not love you, but is a common swindler as well as a deceiver.”

“You will convince me of that?”

“Yes, on my word of honour!  Dry your eyes, and let us try to make this day pass as pleasantly as yesterday.  You cannot imagine how glad I feel that chance has constituted me your protector.  I want you to feel assured of my friendship, and if you do not give me a little love in return, I will try and bear it patiently.”

The landlord came in and brought the bill for the count and his mistress as well as for myself.  I had expected this, and paid it without a word, and without looking at the poor wandering sheep beside me.  I recollected that too strong medicines kill, and do not cure, and I was afraid I had said almost too much.

I longed to know her history, and felt sure I should hear it before we reached Rome.  We took some coffee and departed, and not a word passed between us till we got to the inn at La Scala, where we got down.

The road from La Scala to Radicofani is steep and troublesome.  The vetturino would require an extra horse, and even then would have taken four hours.  I decided, therefore, to take two post horses, and not to begin the journey till ten o’clock.

“Would it not be better to go on now?” said the English girl; “it will be very hot from ten till noon.”

“Yes, but the Comte de l’Ltoile, whom we should be sure to meet at Radicofani, would not like to see me.”

“Why not?  I am sure he would.”

If I had told her my reason she would have wept anew, so in pity I spared her.  I saw that she was blinded by love, and could not see the true character of her lover.  It would be impossible to cure her by gentle and persuasive argument; I must speak sharply, the wound must be subjected to the actual cautery.  But was virtue the cause of all this interest?  Was it devotion to a young and innocent girl that made me willing to undertake so difficult and so delicate a task?  Doubtless these motives went for something, but I will not attempt to strut in borrowed plumes, and must freely confess that if she had been ugly and stupid I should probably have left her to her fate.  In short, selfishness was at the bottom of it all, so let us say no more about virtue.