not even had a good look at her face. I was so afraid of Rosalie (whom I
loved better every day) taking fright.

What I had feared happened. When I took Veronique's hand, and said, "Si,
bella Lindana, debbe adorarvi!" everybody clapped, because I gave the
words their proper expression; but glancing at Rosalie I saw a shadow on
her face, and I was angry at not having controlled myself better.
Nevertheless, I could not help feeling amazed at the way Veronique played
the part. When I told her that I adored her she blushed up to her eyes;
she could not have played the love-sick girl better.

We fixed a day for the dress-rehearsal at the theatre, and the company
announced the first night a week in advance to excite public curiosity.
The bills ran:

"We shall give Voltaire's Ecossaise, translated by an anonymous author:
no prompter will be present."

I cannot give the reader any idea of the trouble I had to quiet Rosalie.
She refused to be comforted; wept incessantly, and touched my heart by
gentle reproaches.

"You love Veronique," said she, "and you only translated that piece to
have an opportunity of declaring your love."

I succeeded in convincing her that she wronged me, and at last after I
had lavished caresses on her she suffered herself to be calmed. Next
morning she begged pardon for her jealousy, and to cure it insisted on my
speaking constantly to Veronique. Her heroism went farther. She got up
before me and sent me my coffee by Veronique, who was as astonished as I