For one hour we spoke of Angela, and I expressed my determination never to see her again, as I had every proof that she did not care for me. “She loves you,” said the artless Marton; “I know she does, but if you do not mean to marry her, you will do well to give up all intercourse with her, for she is quite determined not to grant you even a kiss as long as you are not her acknowledged suitor. You must therefore either give up the acquaintance altogether, or make up your mind that she will refuse you everything.” “You argue very well, but how do you know that she loves me?” “I am quite sure of it, and as you have promised to be our brother, I can tell you why I have that conviction. When Angela is in bed with me, she embraces me lovingly and calls me her dear abbe.” The words were scarcely spoken when Nanette, laughing heartily, placed her hand on her sister’s lips, but the innocent confession had such an effect upon me that I could hardly control myself. Marton told Nanette that I could not possibly be ignorant of what takes place between young girls sleeping together. “There is no doubt,” I said, “that everybody knows those trifles, and I do not think, dear Nanette, that you ought to reproach your sister with indiscretion for her friendly confidence.” “It cannot be helped now, but such things ought not to be mentioned. If Angela knew it!” “She would be vexed, of course; but Marton has given me a mark of her friendship which I never can forget. But it is all over; I hate Angela, and I do not mean to speak to her any more! she is false, and she wishes my ruin.” “Yet, loving you, is she wrong to think of having you for her husband?” “Granted that she is not; but she thinks only of her own self, for she knows what I suffer, and her conduct would be very different if she loved me. In the mean time, thanks to her imagination, she finds the means of satisfying her senses with the charming Marton who kindly performs the part of her husband.” Nanette laughed louder, but I kept very serious, and I went on talking to her sister, and praising her sincerity. I said that very likely, and to reciprocate her kindness, Angela must likewise have been her husband, but she answered, with a smile, that Angela played husband only to Nanette, and Nanette could not deny it. “But,” said I, “what name did Nanette, in her rapture, give to her husband?” “Nobody knows.” “Do you love anyone, Nanette?” “I do; but my secret is my own.” This reserve gave me the suspicion that I had something to do with her secret, and that Nanette was the rival of Angela. Such a delightful conversation caused me to lose the wish of passing an idle night with two girls so well made for love.