Guess, dear mother, guess: I thought I should have sunk into the earth. Himself!
The Prince! Blest be your father's impatience! He was here just now, and would not stay till you returned.
My father here--and not stay till I returned!
If, in the midst of your confusion, you had told him too.
Well, dear mother--could he have found anything in my conduct deserving of censure?
No--as little as in mine. And yet, yet--you do not know your father. When enraged, he would have mistaken the innocent for the guilty--in his anger he would have fancied me the cause of what I could neither prevent nor foresee. But proceed, my daughter, proceed. When you recognised the Prince, I trust that you were sufficiently composed to convince him by your looks, of the contempt which he deserved.
That I was not. After the glance by which I recognised him, I had not courage to cast a second. I fled.
I did not know it till I had reached the porch, where I felt my hand seized--by him. Shame compelled me to stop; as an effort to extricate myself would have attracted the attention of every one who was passing. This was the only reflection of which I was capable, or which I at present remember. He spoke, and I replied--but what he said, or what I replied, I know not.--Should I recollect it, my dear mother, you shall hear it. At present I remember nothing further. My senses had forsaken me.--In vain do I endeavour to recollect how I got away from him, and escaped from the porch. I found myself in the street--I heard his steps behind me--I heard him follow me into the house, and pursue me up the stairs----
Fear has its peculiar faculty, my daughter. Never shall I forget the look with which you rushed into this room!--No. He dared not follow you so far.--Heavens! had your father known this!--How angry was he when I merely told him that the Prince had lately beheld you with admiration! Be at ease, however, my dear girl. Fancy what has happened to be a mere dream. The result will be less, even, than a dream. You will be assured to-day from all similar designs.
No, mother! The Count must know it--to him I must relate it.
Not for the world. Wherefore? Why? Do you wish to make him uneasy without a cause? And granting that he may not become so at present--know, my child, the poison which does not operate immediately, is not on that account less dangerous. That which has no effect upon the lover, may produce a serious one upon the husband. The lover might even be flattered at winning the prize from so great a rival; but when he has won it--alas, my dear Emilia, the lover often becomes quite another being. Heaven preserve you from such experience!