There was one lady in particular, who spared no pains to attract him to
herself. She was the widow of a celebrated _litterateur_ and was herself
well known as a brilliant but shallow writer. She was not young, but she
was well-preserved, and owed much to the arts of the toilet. I saw her
lavishing her smiles and blandishments on my dear master; I saw that he
was not insensible to the power of her charms, artificial as they were;
and a cruel jealousy fastened, like the vulture of Prometheus, on my
vitals.

Could I but have entered the lists with her on equal ground; could I but
have appeared before him in my own proper person, arrayed in appropriate
and maidenly costume, I felt sure of gaining the victory, for I had
youth on my side; I had already an interest in his heart; but, alas! I
could not do this without first announcing myself as an impostor, as a
liar and deceiver, to the man whose good opinion I prized above all
earthly things.

A dreadful thought now rested on my mind day and night: What if this
woman should accomplish her designs? What if my master should marry her?
What would then become of me?

But I was spared this trial.

The translation was finished; it was in the hands of the publisher; and
the proof-sheets had been carefully revised, partly by my master, partly
by myself. He had insisted on putting my name with his own on the
title-page; but I refused my consent with a pertinacity which he could
not comprehend, and which came nearer making him angry than any thing
that had ever transpired between us.