"It seems I did not: yet, I would not swear so."
"You would have no doubt, had you loved him. Besides, the question you ask carries a reply in itself. The new love, from the necessity of things, excludes the old."
"Do not decide too quickly on that, my father," said Consuelo, with a sad smile. "Although I love Albert differently from the other, I do not love him less than I used to do; who knows if I do not love him more? I feel ready to sacrifice this unknown man to him, though the thought of the latter deprives me of sleep, and makes my heart beat at the very moment I speak to you."
"Is it not the pride of duty, rather a self-devotion than love for Albert, which makes you thus prefer him?"
"I do not think so."
"Are you sure? Remember, here you are far from the world, sheltered from its opinions, and protected from its laws. Should we give you a new rule of life and new ideas of duty, would you persist in preferring the happiness of a man you do not love to one whom you do?"
"Have I ever told you that I do not love Albert?" said Consuelo, eagerly.
"I can answer this question only by another, my daughter—can two loves exist at once?"
"Yes; two different loves. One may love a brother and a husband."
"Yet not a husband and a lover. The rights of a brother and lover are different. Those of a husband and lover are identical; unless, indeed, the husband consent to become a brother. In that case, the law of marriage would be violated in its most mysterious, intimate, and sacred relation. It would be a divorce, except that it would not be public. Reply to me, Consuelo: I am an old man, on the brink of the tomb, and you are a child. I am here as your parent and confessor. I cannot offend your modesty by this delicate question, to which I hope you will reply boldly. In the enthusiastic friendship which Albert inspired, was there not always a secret and insurmountable terror at the idea of his caresses?"