“Stop, stop,” interrupted Father John, smiling; “you forget, that though you wear the San-Benito, or robe of heresy yourself, you are in the company of those who——”
“Exactly think on certain points,” interrupted I, “even as my heretical self.”
This observation led to a little controversial dialogue, which, as it would stand a very poor chance of being read by you, will stand none at all of being transcribed by me.
When we returned home we found the Prince impatiently watching for us at the window, fearful lest the dews of heaven should have fallen too heavily on the head of his heart’s idol, who finished her walk in silence; either, I believe, not much pleased with the turn given to the conversation by the priest, or not sufficiently interested in it.
I know not how it is, but since the morning of the first of May, I feel as though my soul had entered into a covenant with hers; as though our very beings were indissolubly interwoven with each other. And yet the freedom which once existed in our intercourse is fled. I approach her trembling; and she repels the most distant advances with such dignified softness, such chastely modest reserve, that the restraint I sometimes labour under in her presence, is almost concomitant to the bliss it bestows.
This morning, when she came to her drawing-desk, she held a volume of De Moustier in her hand—“I have brought this,” said she, “for ou bon Pere Directeur to read out to us.”
“He has commissioned me,” said I, “to make his excuses; he is gone to visit a sick man on the other side of the mountain.”
At this intelligence she blushed to the eyes; but suddenly recovering herself, she put the book into my hands, and said with a smile, “then you must officiate for him.”
As soon as she was seated at the drawing-desk, I opened the book, and by chance at the beautiful description of the Boudoir: