I gave the poor devil of a vetturino two sequins, telling him that I should like some coffee and to start in a quarter of an hour.
I was grieved to see my companion’s sadness.
“I understand your grief,” said I, “but you must try to overcome it. I have only one favour to ask of you, and if you refuse to grant me that, I shall be as sad as you, so we shall be rather a melancholy couple.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me on your word of honour whether that extraordinary character is your husband, or only your lover.”
“I will tell you the simple truth; he is not my husband, but we are going to be married at Rome.”
“I breathe again. He never shall be your husband, and so much the better for you. He has seduced you, and you love him, but you will soon get over that.”
“Never, unless he deceives me.”
“He has deceived you already. I am sure he has told you that he is rich, that he is a man of rank, and that he will make you happy; and all that is a lie.”
“How can you know all this?”