“‘Tis to you, my lord,” said I, “I entrust Rosalie. I am placing her, I am sure, in good hands. I will go on my way as soon as she is in the convent; I hope you will write a letter to the mother-superior for her to take.”
“I will write it directly,” said he.
And as Rosalie had told him before that she would pay for everything herself, he gave her a written copy of the agreement he had made.
“I have resolved,” said Rosalie to the marquis, “to go into the convent to-morrow, and I shall be very glad to have a short visit from you the day after.”
“I will be there,” said the marquis, “and you may be sure that I will do all in my power to make your stay agreeable.”
The night was a sad one for both of us. Love scarcely made a pause amidst our alternate complaints and consolations. We swore to be faithful for ever, and our oaths were sincere, as ardent lovers’ oaths always are. But they are as nought unless they are sealed by destiny, and that no mortal mind may know.
Rosalie, whose eyes were red and wet with tears, spent most of the morning in packing up with Veronique, who cried too. I could not look at her, as I felt angry with myself for thinking how pretty she was. Rosalie would only take two hundred sequins, telling me that if she wanted more she could easily let me know.
She told Veronique to look after me well for the two or three days I should spend at Genoa, made me a mute curtsy, and went out with Costa to get a sedan-chair. Two hours after, a servant of the marquis’s came to fetch her belongings, and I was thus left alone and full of grief till the marquis came and asked me to give him supper, advising that Veronique should be asked in to keep us company.
“That’s a rare girl,” said he, “you really don’t know her, and you ought to know her better.”
Although I was rather surprised, I did not stop to consider what the motives of the crafty Genoese might be, and I went and asked Veronique to come in. She replied politely that she would do so, adding that she knew how great an honour I did her.