“Ah! my dear friend.”
“What?”
“Don’t let us think of that any more, I beseech you.”
“You are disgusted, and not unnaturally; but your love cannot be very strong, Ah! how unhappy I am.”
“I am more unhappy than you. I love you, and you would be thankless indeed if you ceased to love me. Let us love each other, but let us not endeavour to give one another proofs of our love. It might be fatal. That accursed widow! She is gone away, and in a fortnight we shall be going also to Bale, where we remain till the end of November.”
The die is cast, and I see that I must submit to your decision, or rather to my destiny, for none but fatal events have befallen me since I came to Switzerland. My only consoling thought is that I have made your honour safe.”
“You have won my husband’s friendship and esteem; we shall always be good friends.”
“If you are going I feel that I must go before you. That will tend to convince the wretched author of my woe that there is nothing blame-worthy in my friendship for you.”
“You reason like an angel, and you convince me more and more of your love. Where are you going?”
“To Italy; but I shall take Berne and Geneva on my way.”