Lucrezia, in speaking thus, was not composing a poetical ode; she was not
feigning fictitious sentiments; her looks, the sound of her voice, were
truth itself!

"Are you certain," I enquired, "that we are not suspected?"

"My husband does not believe us to be in love with each other, or else he
does not mind such trifling pleasures as youth is generally wont to
indulge in. My mother is a clever woman, and perhaps she suspects the
truth, but she is aware that it is no longer any concern of hers. As to
my sister, she must know everything, for she cannot have forgotten the
broken-down bed; but she is prudent, and besides, she has taken it into
her head to pity me. She has no conception of the nature of my feelings
towards you. If I had not met you, my beloved, I should probably have
gone through life without realizing such feelings myself; for what I feel
for my husband.... well, I have for him the obedience which my position
as a wife imposes upon me."

"And yet he is most happy, and I envy him! He can clasp in his arms all
your lovely person whenever he likes! There is no hateful veil to hide
any of your charms from his gaze."

"Oh! where art thou, my dear serpent? Come to us, come and protect us
against the surprise of the uninitiated, and this very instant I fulfil
all the wishes of him I adore!"

We passed the morning in repeating that we loved each other, and in
exchanging over and over again substantial proofs of our mutual passion.

We had a delicious dinner, during which I was all attention for the