"It is gloomy, simply gloomy. A fortress on a rock. Gray stone, a red rock, scorched by the sun. Huge halls half Moorish in style. Walls as thick as those of a prison. Steel knights, standing with lance in hand as in _Eviradnus_! Old portraits of stern ancestors cramped in their doublets, or Duchesses de Rosas, with pale faces, sad countenances, buried in their collars whose _guipures_ have been limned by Velasquez or Claude Coello. Immense cold rooms where the visitors' footfalls echo as over empty tombs. A splendor that savors of the vault. You would die of ennui at the end of two hours and of cold at the end of eight days." "Die of cold in Spain?" "There is a cold of the soul," the duke replied with a significant smile. "That I have travelled so much, is probably due to my desire to escape from that place! But you at Toledo, at Fuentecarral,--that is the name of my castle,--a Parisian like you! It would be cruel. As well shut up a humming-bird in a bear-pit. No! thank God, I have other nooks in Spain that will shelter us, my dear sparrow of the boulevards! Under the Andalusian jasmines, beneath the oleanders of Cordova or Seville, under the fountains whose basins are decorated with azulejos, and in which sultanas bathe, my jasmins could never sufficiently exhale their perfume, my fountains could never murmur harmoniously enough to furnish you a joyous welcome--when you go--if you go--But Toledo! My terrible castle Fuentecarral! It is in vain that I am impenitently romantic, I would not take you there for anything in the world. It would be as if ice fell on your shoulders. Fuentecarral? Ugh!--that smacks of death." While he spoke, Marianne looked at him with kindling eyes and in thought roamed through those sweet-scented gardens, and she craved to see herself in that tomblike fortress Fuentecarral, passing in front of the pale female ancestors of Rosas, aghast at the _froufrou_ of the _Parisian woman_. Jose thought Marianne's burning glance was an expression of her love. Ah! how completely the last six months in Paris had riveted him to this woman, who was the mistress of another! One day,--Vaudrey had just left Marianne at the _rond-point_ of the Champs-Elysees,--the duke seeing her enter his house, said abruptly to her: "I was about to write you, Marianne." "Why, my dear duke?" "To ask an appointment." "You are always welcome, my friend, at our little retreat." He made her sit down, seized both her hands, and looked at her earnestly as he said: "Swear to me that you have never been Lissac's mistress!" She did not even quiver, but was as calm as if she had long awaited this question. She boldly met Jose's glance and said: "Does one ask such a question of the woman one loves?" "Suppose that I ask this question of the Duchesse de Rosas!" said the Spaniard, with quivering lip. She became as pale as he. "I do not understand--" she said. The duke remained silent for a moment; then his entire soul passed into his voice: