“What offence have I to forgive you for, dear friend?  You have not rightly interpreted my thoughts.  Your love caused me to think of my happiness, and in that moment a cruel recollection drew that sigh from me.  Pray rise from your knees.”

Midnight had struck already; I told her that her good fame made it necessary for me to go away; I put my mask on and left the house.  I was so surprised, so amazed at having obtained a felicity of which I did not think myself worthy, that my departure must have appeared rather abrupt to her.  I could not sleep.  I passed one of those disturbed nights during which the imagination of an amorous young man is unceasingly running after the shadows of reality.  I had tasted, but not savoured, that happy reality, and all my being was longing for her who alone could make my enjoyment complete.  In that nocturnal drama love and imagination were the two principal actors; hope, in the background, performed only a dumb part.  People may say what they please on that subject but hope is in fact nothing but a deceitful flatterer accepted by reason only because it is often in need of palliatives.  Happy are those men who, to enjoy life to the fullest extent, require neither hope nor foresight.

In the morning, recollecting the sentence of death which I had passed on Steffani, I felt somewhat embarrassed about it.  I wished I could have recalled it, as well for the honour of my oracle, which was seriously implicated by it, as for the sake of Steffani himself, whom I did not hate half so much since I was indebted to him for the treasure in my possession.

The count and his son came to dinner.  The father was simple, artless, and unceremonious.  It was easy to read on his countenance the grief he felt at the unpleasant adventure of his daughter, and his anxiety to settle the affair honourably, but no anger could be traced on his features or in his manners.  The son, as handsome as the god of love, had wit and great nobility of manner.  His easy, unaffected carriage pleased me, and wishing to win his friendship I shewed him every attention.

After the dessert, M. Barbaro contrived to persuade the count that we were four persons with but one head and one heart, and the worthy nobleman spoke to us without any reserve.  He praised his daughter very highly.  He assured us that Steffani had never entered his house, and therefore he could not conceive by what spell, speaking to his daughter only at night and from the street under the window, he had succeeded in seducing her to such an extent as to make her leave her home alone, on foot, two days after he had left himself in his post-chaise.

“Then,” observed M. Barbaro, “it is impossible to be certain that he actually seduced her, or to prove that she went off with him.”

“Very true, sir, but although it cannot be proved, there is no doubt of it, and now that no one knows where Steffani is, he can be nowhere but with her.  I only want him to marry her.”