But there was one circumstance which annoyed me. In public, she seized every opportunity of treating me with distinction, while, when we were alone, it was exactly the reverse. In the eyes of the world I had all the appearance of a happy lover, but I would rather have had less of the appearance of happiness and more of the reality. My love for her was disinterested; vanity had no share in my feelings.
One day, being alone with me, she said,
“You have enemies, but I silenced them last night.”
“They are envious, madam, and they would pity me if they could read the secret pages of my heart. You could easily deliver me from those enemies.”
“How can you be an object of pity for them, and how could I deliver you from them?”
“They believe me happy, and I am miserable; you would deliver me from them by ill-treating me in their presence.”
“Then you would feel my bad treatment less than the envy of the wicked?”
“Yes, madam, provided your bad treatment in public were compensated by your kindness when we are alone, for there is no vanity in the happiness I feel in belonging to you. Let others pity me, I will be happy on condition that others are mistaken.”
“That’s a part that I can never play.”
I would often be indiscreet enough to remain behind the curtain of the window in my room, looking at her when she thought herself perfectly certain that nobody saw her; but the liberty I was thus guilty of never proved of great advantage to me. Whether it was because she doubted my discretion or from habitual reserve, she was so particular that, even when I saw her in bed, my longing eyes never could obtain a sight of anything but her head.