“The world is greatly mistaken,” interrupted the Count. “I ardently love Rosaura, and I have his Majesty’s consent to the marriage. But what a fool men take me for, if they suppose——” he stopped short, and tossed his head with a scornful smile.
“Well?” said the officer.
“Solve the riddle yourself.”
“I understand! Your position is uneasy, the future dark, the decisive moment at hand. With one’s feet on a volcano, one is little disposed to enjoy a honeymoon.”
“But when the mine explodes, and one is tossed into the air, it is pleasant to fall in the soft lap of love, there to forget one’s wounds.”
“Bravo! But what if the lap refuse to receive the luckless engineer?”
“Amigo!” replied the Count—“I thought you knew me better. Under all circumstances, Rosaura remains mine. For myself have I trained and nurtured this fair and delicate plant, and to me, as the gardener, it belongs.”
“She loves you, then?”
“Loves me? What a question! Of course she does. She has grown up with the idea that she is to be my wife. Her heart is pure and unblemished as a diamond: it shall be my care to keep it so.”
“You fear rivals?”