“You cannot imagine what I had a mind to do and to say to that foolish sister; but here one must say or do nothing; one must be patient and dissemble, thanking God when mistakes are the result of ignorance and not of wickedness—­a very common thing in convents.  I foresaw at once, at least partly; what would happen; and what has actually, happened; for no reasonable being could, I believe, have foreseen it all.  I guessed that, thinking yourself the victim of a joke, you would be incensed, and I felt miserable, for I did not see any way of letting you know the truth before the following Sunday.  My heart longed ardently for that day.  Could I possibly imagine that you, would take a resolution not to come again to our church!  I tried to be patient until that Sunday; but when I found myself disappointed in my hope, my misery became unbearable, and it will cause my death if you refuse to listen to my justification.  Your letter has made me completely unhappy, and I shall not resist my despair if you persist in the cruel resolve expressed by your unfeeling letter.  You have considered yourself trifled with; that is all you can say; but will this letter convince you of your error?  And even believing yourself deceived in the most scandalous manner, you must admit that to write such an awful letter you must have supposed me an abominable wretch—­a monster, such as a woman of noble birth and of refined education cannot possibly be.  I enclose the two letters you sent back to me, with the idea of allaying my fears which you cruelly supposed very different to what they are in reality.  I am a better physiognomist than you, and you must be quite certain that I have not acted thoughtlessly, for I never thought you capable, I will not say of crime, but even of an indelicate action.  You must have read on my features the signs only of giddy impudence, and that is not my nature.  You may be the cause of my death, you will certainly make me miserable for the remainder of my life, if you do not justify yourself; on my side I think the justification is complete.

“I hope that, even if you feel no interest in my life, you will think that you are bound in honour to come and speak to me.  Come yourself to recall all you have written; it is your duty, and I deserve it.  If you do not realize the fatal effect produced upon me by your letter, I must indeed pity you, in spite of my misery, for it proves that you have not the slightest knowledge of the human heart.  But I feel certain that you will come back, provided the man to whom I trust this letter contrives to find you.  Adieu!  I expect life or death from you.”

I did not require to read that letter twice; I was ashamed and in despair.  M——­ M——­ was right.  I called the Forlanese, enquired from him whether he had spoken to her in the morning, and whether she looked ill.  He answered that he had found her looking more unhappy every day, and that her eyes were red from weeping.

“Go down again and wait,” I said to him.