I must have been marble, or have wept--I could not help it; and the old man cast himself upon my neck, and mingled his tears with mine. "Count Louis," said the corregidor, after we had somewhat mastered our first agitation, "I know all. My unfortunate child, before the poison she had taken had completed her fatal intention, told me everything. Her love for you--your generous self-sacrifice to her--all is known to me. You pity me--I see you pity me. If you do, grant me the only solace that my misery can have--respect my poor child's memory!--Promise me--and I know your promise is inviolable--never while you are in Spain, or to a Spaniard, on any account, or for any reason, to divulge the fatal history, of which you are the only depository; and even if you tell her story in other countries, oh! add that her crimes were greatly her weak father's fault, who, with a foolish fondness, gave way to all her inclinations, and thus pampered the passions that proved her ruin and her death." I could not refuse him; I promised--and was glad, at least, to see that the assurance of my secrecy took some part, even though a small one, from the load of misery that had fallen upon him. He spoke to me long and tenderly, advising me to quit Spain as soon as possible, lest the Inquisition should regard the matter as within their cognisance, from the murdered man having been a priest. At length I took leave of him, renewing my promise, and returned home, with a heart saddened and rebuked, but I hope amended and improved. CHAPTER XI. With a slow and thoughtful step I mounted the staircase, glad to escape, by the quiet tardiness of my return, the importunate congratulations which my landlady, attributing my delivery entirely to her own eloquence, was prepared to shower upon me as soon as I came back. Cutting her off then from this very laudable exercise of her tongue and gratification of her vanity, I ascended the stairs, as I have said, in silence, and was first met by Father Francis, who, after embracing me, drew me into his own apartment, and informed me that a letter had arrived from my father, requiring my immediate return to France; "and, God be praised! my dear son," said the old man, "that you are at liberty to quit this dark and fearful country, and return to your parents and happy native land. But go," continued he, "into your own apartment, where your good friend the Chevalier waits you. I know not why, but he seems in a strange agitation, speaks abruptly, and appears to me displeased, though with what I know not, without it be your sudden recall to your own home. In truth, I never saw him so affected." I well understood the meaning of the Chevalier's agitation; I myself was agitated, and embarrassed how to act, and consequently I acted ill.