At this Rosalie, as if I had given her another being, began to try and express her gratitude for what I had done. Her words, which passion made confused, increased my joy; here was no art nor deceit, but simple nature.
There was no mirror in her garret, so she had dressed by her sense of touch, and I could see that she was afraid to stand up and look at herself in the mirror in my room. I knew the weak spot in all women’s hearts (which men are very wrong in considering as matter for reproach), and I encouraged her to admire herself, whereupon she could not restrain a smile of satisfaction.
“I think I must be in disguise,” said she, “for I have never seen myself so decked out before.”
She praised the tasteful simplicity of the dress I had chosen, but was vexed at the thought that her mother would still be displeased.
“Think no more of your mother, dearest one. You look like a lady of quality, and I shall be quite proud when the people at Genoa ask me if you are my daughter.”
“At Genoa?”
“Yes, at Genoa. Why do you blush?”
“From surprise; perhaps I may see there one whom I have not yet forgotten.”
“Would you like to stay here better?”
“No, no! Love me and be sure that I love you and for your own sake, not from any thought of my own interests.”