One evening, I was alone with Donna Rodolpha in her own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to assist at them. I was just congratulating myself on having finished The Loves of Tristan and the Queen Iseult ⁠—

“Ah! The unfortunates!” cried the Baroness; “How say you, señor? Do you think it possible for man to feel an attachment so disinterested and sincere?”

“I cannot doubt it,” replied I; “My own heart furnishes me with the certainty. Ah! Donna Rodolpha, might I but hope for your approbation of my love! Might I but confess the name of my mistress without incurring your resentment!”

She interrupted me.