The heroine of my romance was neither young nor handsome;
she had no lover; she had entered the convent of her own free will, as
a respectable asylum, and was one of the most cheerful residents
within its walls.
It was some little while before I could forgive the wrong done me by
the nun in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all the
rules of romance; I diverted my spleen, however, by watching, for a
day or two, the pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette, who, from
the covert of a balcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and a silken
awning, was carrying on a mysterious correspondence with a handsome,
dark, well-whiskered cavalier, who lurked frequently in the street
beneath her window. Sometimes I saw him at an early hour, stealing
forth wrapped to the eyes in a mantle. Sometimes he loitered at a
corner, in various disguises, apparently waiting for a private
signal to slip into the house. Then there was the tinkling of a guitar
at night, and a lantern shifted from place to place in the balcony.
I imagined another intrigue like that of Almaviva; but was again
disconcerted in all my suppositions. The supposed lover turned out
to be the husband of the lady, and a noted contrabandista; and all his
mysterious signs and movements had doubtless some smuggling scheme
in view.
I occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the
gradual changes of the scenes below, according to the different stages
of the day.
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