“No; he proposed going of his own accord.” “Indeed! When was that?” “Last evening.” “And when are you to leave?” “Next Monday.” “A whole week! It is a long time.... In spite of my personal regret to lose you, I wish your departure could take place sooner.” “And I also,” I murmured without knowing why, for at that moment I was not at all preoccupied with the cause of Lando’s anxiety. “Endeavor, at least, to make him pass every evening like this. Your friend is pleasing; she amuses him, and may be able to divert him from other things.” “Lando, stop!” I exclaimed with a vehemence I could not repress. He uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and I hastily continued, lest he might have comprehended me: “Yes, be quiet, I beg, while they are playing the _Marche du Prophète_. I wish to hear it undisturbed.” But I did not listen to the _Marche du Prophète_. I only listened to—I only heard—the voices beside me. Lorenzo and his companion at first continued to converse in an animated manner on subjects apparently indifferent, but concerning people and places I was entirely ignorant of.... Recollections of the past were recalled which I knew nothing about. A long silence soon intervened, and when at last they resumed the conversation, it was in so low a tone I was unable to follow it. Lorenzo and Lando returned on foot, and I took Donna Faustina home. Before separating we embraced each other once more, saying _au revoir_; but after leaving her I thought without any regret that before another week I should bid her a long farewell, and perhaps even then I should not have been sorry were it for ever. XXI. During the following week, that looked so long to Lando, and was indeed long enough to affect my whole life, what transpired?... Apparently nothing very different from the evening I have just described; nothing that did not seem the natural consequence of the intimacy so suddenly formed between Donna Faustina and myself, the recent date of which I alone seemed not to have forgotten. But little by little, I might say hour by hour, I felt a secret, powerful, subtle influence growing up around me, and the deepest instincts of my heart, for a moment repressed, were violently roused, causing me to suffer all the pangs of doubt, anxiety, and the most cruel suspicion. But as nothing new seemed to justify these feelings, I forced myself to conceal them, for fear of rendering myself odious in Lorenzo’s eyes and losing the charm of my generous confidence. Moreover, did not my continuing to manifest this confidence oblige him to merit it?... And could Faustina be treacherous while I was redoubling my cordiality and affection, and confiding in her as a friend? Was I not in a certain manner protecting myself by obliging both of them in honor not to deceive me?