I wonder at my destiny, and I believe there was never any thing
under Heaven so marvellous, nothing more strange and incomprehensible,
and nothing more opposed to reason. I have a lover, who incessantly does
nothing else but persecute me; who, amidst all the expressions of his
love, does not entertain for me any feelings of esteem; whose heart, on
which my eyes have made an impression, does not do justice to the lofty
rank granted to me by Heaven; who will not defend the innocence of my
actions against the slightest semblance of false appearances. Yes, I
see ... (_Don Garcia shows some signs of impatience, and wishes to
speak_). Above all, do not interrupt me. I see that my unhappiness is so
great, that one who says he loves me, and who, even if the whole world
were to attack my reputation, ought to claim to defend it against all,
is he who is its greatest foe. In the midst of his love, he lets no
opportunity pass of suspecting me; he not only suspects me, but breaks
out into such violent fits of jealousy that love cannot suffer without
being wounded. Far from acting like a lover who would rather die than
offend her whom he loves, who gently complains and seeks respectfully
to have explained what he thinks suspicious, he proceeds to extremities
as soon as he doubts, and is full of rage, insults, and threats.
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