THE CROSS OF BERNY

OR

IRENE'S LOVERS

BY MADAME EMILE DE GIRARDINMM. THÉOPHILE GAUTIERJULES SANDEAU AND MERY

PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. 

Literary partnerships have often been tried, but very rarely withsuccess in the more imaginative branches of literature. Occasionally twominds have been found to supplement each other sufficiently to producegood joint writing, as in the works of MM. Erckman-Chatrian; but whenthe partnership has included more than two, it has almost invariablyproved a failure, even when composed of individually the brightestintellects, and where the highest hopes have been entertained. Standingalmost if not quite alone, in contrast with these failures of the past, THE CROSS OF BERNY is the more remarkable; and has achieved the successnot merely of being the simply harmonious joint work of four individualminds, --but of being in itself, and entirely aside from its interest asa literary curiosity, a _great book_. 

A high rank, then, is claimed for it not upon its success as a literarypartnership, for that at best would but excite a sort of curiousinterest, but upon its intrinsic merit as a work of fiction. The spiritof rivalry in which it was undertaken was perhaps not the best guaranteeof harmony in the tone of the whole work, but it has certainly addedmaterially to the wit and brilliancy of the letters, while harmony hasbeen preserved by much tact and skill. No one of its authors could alonehave written THE CROSS OF BERNY--together, each one has given us hisbest, and their joint effort will long live to their fame. 

The shape in which it appears, as a correspondence between fourcharacters whose names are the pseudonyms of the four authors of thebook, although at first it may seem to the reader a little awkward, willupon reflection be seen to be wisely chosen, since it allows to each ofthe prominent characters an individuality otherwise very difficult ofattainment. In this way also any differences of style which there maybe, tend rather to heighten the effect, and to increase the reality ofthe characters. 

The title under which the original French edition appeared has beenretained in the translation, although since its applicability dependsupon a somewhat local allusion, the general reader may possibly fail toappreciate it. 

ORIGINAL PREFACE TO THE FRENCH EDITION. 

The Cross of Berny was, it will be remembered, a brilliant tourney, where Madame de Girardin (née Delphine Gay), Théophile Gautier, JulesSandeau and Méry, broke lances like valiant knights of old. 

We believe we respond to the general wish by adding to the _BibliothèqueNouvelle_ this unique work, which assumed and will ever retain a highposition among the literary curiosities of the day. 

Not feeling called upon to decide who is the victor in the tilt, wemerely lift the pseudonymous veil concealing the champions. 

The letters signed Irene de Chateaudun are by Madame de Girardin. " " " Edgar de Meilhan " M. Théophile Gautier. " " " Raymond de Villiers " M. Jules Sandeau. " " " Roger de Monbert " M. Méry. 

Who are recognised as the four most brilliant of our celebratedcontemporaneous authors. --EDITOR. 

CROSS OF BERNY. 

I. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Préfecture, GRENOBLE (Isère). 

PARIS, May 16th, 18--. 

You are a great prophetess, my dear Valentino. Your predictions areverified. 

Thanks to my peculiar disposition, I am already in the most deplorablyfalse position that a reasonable mind and romantic heart could ever havecontrived. 

With you, naturally and instinctively, I have always been sincere;indeed it would be difficult to deceive one whom I have so often seen bya single glance read the startled conscience, and lead it from the waysof insolence and shame back into the paths of rectitude. 

It is to you I would confide all my troubles; your counsel may save meere it be too late. 

You must not think me absurd in ascribing all my unhappiness to what ispopularly regarded as "a piece of good luck. "

Governed by my weakness, or rather by my fatal judgment, I have plightedmy troth!. . . Good Heavens! is it really true that I am engaged to Princede Monbert?

If you knew the prince you would laugh at my sadness, and at themelancholy tone in which I announce this intelligence. 

Monsieur de Monbert is the most witty and agreeable man in Paris; he isnoble-hearted, generous and . . . In fact fascinating!. . . And I love him!He alone pleases me; in his absence I weary of everything; in hispresence I am satisfied and happy--the hours glide away uncounted; Ihave perfect faith in his good heart and sound judgment, and proudlyrecognise his incontestable superiority--yes, I admire, respect, and, Irepeat it, love him!. . . 

Yet, the promise I have made to dedicate my life to him, frightens me, and for a month I have had but one thought--to postpone this marriage Iwished for--to fly from this man whom I have chosen!. . . 

I question my heart, my experience, my imagination, for an answer tothis inexplicable contradiction; and to interpret so many fears, findnothing but school-girl philosophy and poetic fancies, which you willexcuse because you love me, and I _know_ my imaginary sufferings will atleast awaken pity in your sympathetic breast. 

Yes, my dear Valentine, I am more to be pitied now, than I was in thedays of my distress and desolation. I, who so courageously braved theblows of adversity, feel weak and trembling under the weight of a toobrilliant fortune. 

This happy destiny for which I alone am responsible, alarms me more thandid the bitter lot that was forced upon me one year ago. 

The actual trials of poverty exhaust the field of thought and prevent usfrom nursing imaginary cares, for when we have undergone the torture ofour own forebodings, struggled with the impetuosity and agony of anature surrendered to itself, we are disposed to look almost with reliefon tangible troubles, and to end by appreciating the cares of poverty assalutary distractions from the sickly anxieties of an unemployed mind. 

Oh! believe me to be serious, and accuse me not of comic-operaphilosophy, my dear Valentine! I feel none of that proud disdain forimportunate fortune that we read of in novels; nor do I regret "mypretty boat, " nor "my cottage by the sea;" here, in this beautifuldrawing-room of the Hotel de Langeac, writing to you, I do not sigh formy gloomy garret in the Marais, where my labors day and night were mosttiresome, because a mere parody of the noblest arts, an undignifiedlabor making patience and courage ridiculous, a cruel game which we playfor life while cursing it. 

No! I regret not this, but I do regret the indolence, the idleness ofmind succeeding such trivial exertions. For then there were noresolutions to make, no characters to study, and, above all, noresponsibility to bear, nothing to choose, nothing to change. 

I had but to follow every morning the path marked out by necessity theevening before. 

If I were able to copy or originate some hundred designs; if I possessedsufficient carmine or cobalt to color some wretchedengravings--worthless, but fashionable--which I must myself deliver onthe morrow; if I could succeed in finding some new patterns forembroidery and tapestry, I was content--and for recreation indulged atevenings in the sweetest, that is most absurd, reveries. 

Revery then was a rest to me, now it is a labor, and a dangerous laborwhen too often resorted to; good thoughts then came to assist me in mymisery; now, vexatious presentiments torment my happiness. Then theuncertainty of my future made me mistress of events. I could each daychoose a new destiny, and new adventures. My unexpected and undeservedmisfortune was so complete that I had nothing more to dread andeverything to hope for, and experienced a vague feeling of gratitude forthe ultimate succor that I confidently expected. 

I would pass long hours gazing from my window at a little light shiningfrom the fourth-story window of a distant house. What strangeconjectures I made, as I silently watched the mysterious beacon!

Sometimes, in contemplating it, I recalled the questions addressed byChilde Harold to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, asking the cold marble ifshe who rested there were young and beautiful, a dark-eyed, delicate-featured woman, whose destiny was that reserved by Heaven forthose it loves; or was she a venerable matron who had outlived hercharms, her children and her kindred?

So I also questioned this solitary light:

To what distressed soul did it lend its aid? Some anxious motherwatching and praying beside her sick child, or some youthful studentplunging with stern delight into the arcana of science, to wrest fromthe revealing spirits of the night some luminous truth?

But while the poet questioned death and the past, I questioned theliving present, and more than once the distant beacon seemed to answerme. I even imagined that this busy light flickered in concert with mine, and that they brightened and faded in unison. 

I could only see it through a thick foliage of trees, for a large gardenplanted with poplars, pines and sycamores separated the house where Ihad taken refuge from the tall building whence the beacon shone for menight after night. 

As I could never succeed in finding the points of the compass, I wasignorant of the exact locality of the house, or even on what street itfronted, and knew nothing of its occupants. But still this light was afriend; it spoke a sympathetic language to my eyes--it said: "Courage!you do not suffer alone; behind these trees and under those stars thereis one who watches, labors, dreams. " And when the night was majestic andbeautiful, when the morn rose slowly in the azure sky, like a radianthost offered by the invisible hand of God to the adoration of thefaithful who pray, lament and die by night; when these ever-newsplendors dazzled my troubled soul; when I felt myself seized with thatpoignant admiration which makes solitary hearts find almost grief injoys that cannot be shared, it seemed to me that a dear voice came tocalm my excitement, and exclaimed, with fervor, "Is not the nightbeautiful? What happiness in enjoying it together!"

When the nightingale, deceived by the silence of the deserted spot, andattracted by these dark shades, became a Parisian for a few days, rejuvenating with his vernal songs the old echoes of the city, again itseemed that the same voice whispered softly through the tremblingleaves: "He sings, come listen!"

So the sad nights glided peacefully away, comforted by these foolishreveries. 

Then I invoked my dear ideal, beloved shadow, protector of every honestheart, proud dream, a perfect choice, a jealous love sometimes makingall other love impossible! Oh, my beautiful ideal! Must I then sayfarewell? Now I no longer dare to invoke thee!. . . 

But what folly! Why am I so silly as to permit the remembrance of anideal to haunt me like a remorse? Why do I suffer it to make me unjusttowards noble and generous qualities that I should worthily appreciate?

Do not laugh at me, Valentine, when I assure you that my greatestdistress is that my lover does not resemble in any respect my ideal, andI am provoked that I love him--I cannot deceive myself, the contrast isstriking--judge for yourself. 

You may laugh if you will, but the whole secret of my distress is thecontrast between these two portraits. 

My lover has handsome, intelligent blue eyes--my ideal's eyes are black, full of sadness and fire, not the soft, troubadour eye with longdrooping lids--no! My ideal's glance has none of the languishingtenderness of romance, but is proud, powerful, penetrating, the look ofa thinker, of a great mind yielding to the influence of love, the gazeof a hero disarmed by passion!

My lover is tall and slender--my ideal is only a head taller than myself. . . Ah! I know you are laughing at me, Valentine! Well! I sometimeslaugh at myself. . . . 

My lover is frankness personified--my ideal is not a sly knave, but heis mysterious; he never utters his thoughts, but lets you divine, orrather he speaks to a responsive sentiment in your own bosom. 

My lover is what men call "A good fellow, " you are intimate with him intwenty-four hours. 

My ideal is by no means "a good fellow, " and although he inspiresconfidence and respect, you are never at ease in his presence, there isa graceful dignity in his carriage, an imposing gentleness in hismanner, that always inspires a kind of fear, a pleasing awe. 

You remember, Valentine, when we were very young girls how we were wontto ask each other, in reading the annals of the past, what situationswould have pleased us, what parts we would have liked to play, whatgreat emotions we would have wished to experience; and how you pityinglylaughed at my odd taste. 

My dream, _par excellence_, was to die of fear; I never envied with youthe famed heroines, the sublime shepherdesses who saved their country. Ienvied the timid Esther fainting in the arms of her women at the fiercetones of Ahasuerus, and restored to consciousness by the same voicemusically whispering the fondest words ever inspired by a royal love. 

I also admired Semele, dying of fear and admiration at the frowns of awrathful Jove, but her least of all, because I am terrified in athunderstorm. 

Well, I am still the same--to love tremblingly is my fondest dream; I donot say, like pretty Madame de S. , that I can only be captivated by aman with the passions of a tiger and the manners of a diplomate, I onlydeclare that I cannot understand love without fear. 

And yet my lover does not inspire me with the least fear, and againstall reasoning, I mistrust a love that so little resembles the love Iimagined. 

The strangest doubts trouble me. When Roger speaks to me tenderly; whenhe lovingly calls me his dear Irene, I am troubled, alarmed--I feel asif I were deceiving some one, that I am not free, that I belong toanother. Oh! what foolish scruples! How little do I deserve sympathy!You who have known me from my childhood and are interested in myhappiness, will understand and commiserate my folly, for folly I know itto be, and judge myself as severely as you would. 

I have resolved to treat these wretched misgivings and childish fearsas the creations of a diseased mind, and have arranged a plan for theircure. 

I will go into the country for a short time; good Madame Taverneauoffers me the hospitality of her house at Pont-de-l'Arche; she knowsnothing of what has happened during the last six months, and stillbelieves me to be a poor young widow, forced to paint fans and screensfor her daily bread. 

I am very much amused at hearing her relate my own story withoutimagining she is talking to the heroine of that singular romance. 

Where could she have learned about my sad situation, the minute detailsthat I supposed no one knew?

"A young orphan girl of noble birth, at the age of twenty compelled bymisfortune to change her name and work for her livelihood, is suddenlyrestored to affluence by an accident that carried off all her relatives, an immensely rich uncle, his wife and son. "

She also said my uncle detested me, which proved that she was wellinformed--only she adds that the young heiress is horribly ugly, which Ihope is not true!

I will go to Mme. Taverneau and again become the interesting widow ofMonsieur Albert Guérin, of the Navy. 

Perilous widowhood which invited from my dear Mme. Taverneau confidencesprematurely enlightening, and which Mlle. Irene de Chateaudun had somedifficulty in forgetting. 

Ah! misery is a cruel emancipation! Angelic ignorance, spotlessinnocence of mind is a luxury that poor young girls, even the mostcircumspect, cannot enjoy. 

What presence of mind I had to exercise for three long years in order tosustain my part!

How often have I felt myself blush, when Mme. Taverneau would say: "PoorAlbert! he must have adored you. "

How often have I had to restrain my laughter, when, in enumerating theperfections of her own husband, she would add, with a look of pity: "Itmust distress you to see Charles and me together, our love must recallyour sad loss. "

To these remarks I listened with marvellous self-possession; if comedyor acting of any kind were not distasteful to me, I would make a goodactress. 

But now I must finish telling you of my plan. To-morrow I will set outostensibly with my cousin, accompanying her as far as Fontainbleau, where she is going to join her daughter, then I will return and hidemyself in my modest lodging, for a day or two, before going toPont-de-l'Arche. 

With regard to my cousin, I must say, people abuse her unjustly; she isnot very tiresome, this fat cousin of mine; I heard of nothing but herabsurdities, and was warned against taking up my abode with her andchoosing her for my chaperone, as her persecutions would drive mefrantic and our life would be one continuous quarrel. I am happy to saythat none of these horrors have been realized. We understand each otherperfectly, and, if I am not married next winter, the Hotel de Langeacwill still be my home. 

Roger, uninformed of my departure, will be furious, which is exactlywhat I want, for from his anger I expect enlightenment, and this is thetest I will apply. Like all inexperienced people, I have a theory, andthis theory I will proceed to explain. 

If in your analysis of love you seek sincerity, you must apply a littlejudicious discouragement, for the man who loves hopefully, confidently, is an enigma. 

Follow carefully my line of reasoning; it maybe complicated, laborious, but--it is convincing. 

All violent love is involuntary hypocrisy. 

The more ardent the lover the more artful the man. 

The more one loves, the more one lies. 

The reason of all this is very simple. 

The first symptom of a profound passion is an all-absorbingself-abnegation. The fondest dream of a heart really touched, is to makefor the loved one the most extraordinary and difficult sacrifice. 

How hard it is to subdue the temper, or to change one's nature! yet fromthe moment a man loves he is metamorphosed. If a miser, to please hewill become a spendthrift, and he who feared a shadow, learns to despisedeath. The corrupt Don Juan emulates the virtuous Grandison, and, earnest in his efforts, he believes himself to be really reformed, converted, purified regenerated. 

This happy transformation will last through the hopeful period. But assoon as the remodelled pretender shall have a presentiment that hismetamorphosis is unprofitable; as soon as the implacable voice ofdiscouragement shall have pronounced those two magic words, by whichflights are stayed, thoughts paralyzed, and hopeful hearts deadened, "Never! Impossible!" the probation is over and the candidate returns tothe old idols of graceless, dissolute nature. 

The miser is shocked as he reckons the glittering gold he has wasted. The quondam hero thinks with alarm of his borrowed valor, and turns paleat the sight of his scars. 

The roué, to conceal the chagrin of discomfiture, laughs at the promisesof a virtuous love, calls himself a gay deceiver, great monster, and isonce more self-complacent. 

Freed from restraint, their ruling passions rush to the surface, as whenthe floodgates are opened the fierce torrent sweeps over the field. 

These hypocrites will feel for their beloved vices, lost and foundagain, the thirst, the yearning we feel for happiness long denied us. And they will return to their old habit, with a voracious eagerness, asthe convalescent turns to food, the traveller to the spring, the exileto his native land, the prisoner to freedom. 

Then will reckless despair develop their genuine natures; then, and thenonly, can you judge them. 

Ah! I breathe freely now that I have explained my feelings What do youthink of my views on this profound subject--discouragement in love?

I am confident that this test must sometimes meet with the mostfavorable results. I believe, for example, that with Roger it will beeminently successful, for his own character is a thousand times moreattractive than the one he has assumed to attract me. He would please mebetter if he were less fascinating--his only fault, if it be a fault, ishis lack of seriousness. 

He has travelled too much, and studied different manners and subjectstoo closely, to have that power of judging character, that stock ofideas and principles without which we cannot make for ourselves what iscalled a philosophy, that is, a truth of our own. 

In the savage and civilized lands he traversed, he saw religions soridiculous, morals so wanton, points of honor so ludicrous, that hereturned home with an indifference, a carelessness about everything, which adds brilliancy to his wit, but lessens the dignity of his love. 

Roger attaches importance to nothing--a bitter sorrow must teach him theseriousness of life, that everything must not be treated jestingly. Grief and trouble are needed to restore his faith. 

I hope he will be very unhappy when he hears of my inexplicable flight, and I intend returning for the express purpose of watching his grief;nothing is easier than to pass several days in Paris _incog_. 

My beloved garret remains unrented, and I will there take sly pleasurein seeing for myself how much respect is paid to my memory--I very muchenjoy the novel idea of assisting at my own absence. 

But I perceive that my letter is unpardonably long; also that inconfiding my troubles to you, I have almost forgotten them; and here Irecognise your noble influence, my dear Valentine; the thought of youconsoles and encourages me. Write soon, and your advice will not bethrown away. I confess to being foolish, but am sincerely desirous ofbeing cured of my folly. My philosophy does not prevent my being open toconviction, and willing to sacrifice my logic to those I love. 

Kiss my godchild for me, and give her the pretty embroidered dress Isend with this. I have trimmed it with Valenciennes to my heart'scontent. Oh! my friend, how overjoyed I am to once more indulge inthese treasured laces, the only real charm of grandeur, the onlyunalloyed gift of fortune. Fine country seats are a bore, diamonds aweight and a care, fast horses a danger; but lace! without whoseadornment no woman is properly dressed--every other privation issupportable; but what is life without lace?

I have tried to please your rustic taste in the wagon-load of newlyimported plants, one of which is a _Padwlonia_ (do not call it aPolonais), and is now acclimated in France; its leaves are a yard incircumference, and it grows twenty inches a month--malicious peoplesay it freezes in the winter, but don't you believe the slander. 

Adieu, adieu, my Valentine, write to me, a line from you is happiness. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

My address is, Madame Albert Guérin, Care Mme. Taverneau, Pont de l'Arche, Department of the Eure. 

II. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ M. DE MEILHAN, Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure. )

Paris, May 19th, 18--. 

Dear Edgar, --It cannot be denied that friendship is the refuge ofadversity--the roof that shelters from the storm. 

In my prosperous days I never wrote you. Happiness is selfish. We fearto distress a friend who may be in sorrow, by sending him a picture ofour own bliss. 

I am oppressed with a double burden; your absence, and my misfortunes. 

This introduction will, doubtless, impress you with the idea that Iwander about Paris with dejected visage and neglected dress. Undeceiveyourself. It is one of my principles never to expose my sacred griefs tothe gaze of an unsympathetic world, that only looks to laugh. 

Pity I regard as an insult to my pride: the comforter humiliates theinconsolable mourner; besides, there are sorrows that all pretend tounderstand, but which none really appreciate. It is useless, then, toenumerate one's maladies to a would-be physician; and the world isfilled with those who delight in the miseries of others; who follow thesittings of courts and luxuriate in heart-rending pictures of man'sinjustice to his fellow. 

I do not care to serve as a relaxation to this class of mankind, who, since the abolition of the circus and amphitheatre, are compelled topick up their pleasure wherever they can find it; seeking the bestplaces to witness the struggle of Christian fortitude with adversity. 

But every civilized age has its savage manners, and, knowing this, Iresemble in public the favorite of fortune. I simulate content, and myface is radiant with deceit. 

The idle and curious of the Boulevard Italien, the benches of the circuswould hardly recognise me as the gladiator struggling with aniron-clawed monster--they are all deceived. 

I feel a repugnance, dear Edgar, to entertaining you with a recital ofmy mysterious sorrow. I would prefer to leave you in ignorance, or letyou divine them, but I explain to prevent your friendship imaginingafflictions that are not mine. 

In the first place, to reassure you, my fortune has not suffered duringmy absence. On my return to Paris, my agent dazzled me with the pictureof my wealth. 

"Happy man!" said he; "a great name, a large fortune, health that hasdefied the fires of the tropics, the ice of the poles, --and onlythirty!" The notary reasoned well from a notary's stand-point. If I wereto reduce my possessions to ingots, they would certainly balance anotary's estimate of happiness; therefore, fear nothing for my fortune. 

Nor must you imagine that I grieve over my political and militaryprospects that were lost in the royal storm of '30, when plebeian cannonriddled the Tuilleries and shattered a senile crown. I was only sixteen, and hardly understood the lamentations of my father, whose daily refrainwas, "My child, your future is destroyed. "

A man's future lies in any honorable career. If I have left theepaulettes of my ancestors reposing in their domestic shrine, I canbequeath to my children other decorations. 

I have just returned from a ten years' campaign against all nations, bringing back a marvellous quantity of trophies, but without causing onemother to mourn. In the light of a conqueror, Caesar, Alexander, andHannibal pale in comparison, and yet to a certainty my military futurecould not have gained me the epaulettes of these illustrious commanders. 

You would not, my dear Edgar, suppose, from the gaiety of this letter, that I had passed a frightful night. 

You shall see what becomes of life when not taken care of; when there isan unguarded moment in the incessant duel that, forced by nature, wewage with her from the cradle to the grave. 

What a long and glorious voyage I had just accomplished! What dangers Iescaped! The treacherous sea defeated by a motion of the helm! Thesirens to whom I turned a deaf ear. The Circes deserted under a balefulmoon, ere the brutalizing change had come!

I returned to Paris, a man with soul so dead that his country was notdear to him--I felt guilty of an unknown crime, but reflection reducedthe enormity of the offence. Long voyages impart to us a namelessvirtue--or vice, made up of tolerance, stoicism and disdain. Afterhaving trodden over the graveyards of all nations, it seems as if we hadassisted at the funeral ceremonies of the world, and they who survive onits surface seem like a band of adroit fugitives who have discovered thesecret of prolonging to-day's agony until to-morrow. 

I walked upon the Boulevard Italien without wonder, hatred, love, joy orsorrow. On consulting my inmost thoughts I found there an unimpassionedserenity, a something akin to ennui; I scarcely heard the noise of thewheels, the horses--the crowd that surrounded me. 

Habituated to the turmoil of those grand dead nations near the vastruins of the desert, this little hubbub of wearied citizens scarcelyattracted my attention. 

My face must have reflected the disdainful quietude of my soul. 

By contemplative communion with the mute, motionless colossal faces ofEgypt's and Persia's monuments, I felt that unwittingly my countenancetypified the cold imperturbable tranquillity of their granite brows. 

That evening La Favorita was played at the opera. Charming work! full ofgrace, passion, love. Reaching the end of Le Pelletier street, my walkwas blocked by a line of carriages coming down Provence street; nothaving the patience to wait the passage of this string of vehicles, norbeing very dainty in my distinction between pavement and street, Ifollowed in the wake of the carriages, and as they did not conceal thefaçade of the opera at the end of the court, I saw it, and said "I willgo in. "

I took a box below, because my family-box had changed hands, hangingsand keys at least five times in ten years, and seated myself in thebackground to avoid recognition, and leave undisturbed friends who wouldfeel in duty bound to pay fashionable court to a traveller due tenyears. I was not familiar with La Favorita, and my ear took in the newmusic slowly. Great scores require of the indolent auditor a longnovitiate. 

While I listened indolently to the orchestra and the singers, I examinedthe boxes with considerable interest, to discover what littlerevolutions a decade could bring about in the aristocratic personnel ofthe opera. A confused noise of words and some distinct sentences reachedmy ear from the neighboring boxes when the orchestra was silent. Ilistened involuntarily; the occupants were not talking secrets, theirconversation was in the domain of idle chat, that divides with thelibretto the attention of the habitues of the opera. 

They said, "I could distinguish her in a thousand, I mistrust my sight alittle, but my glass is infallible; it is certainly Mlle. DeBressuire--a superb figure, but she spoils her beauty by affectation. "

"Your glass deceives you, my dear sir, we know Mlle. De Bressuire. "

"Madame is right; it is not Mlle. That young lady at whom everybody isgazing, and who to-night is the favorite--excuse the pun--of the opera, is a Spaniard; I saw her at the Bois de Boulogne in M. Martinez de laHosa's carriage. They told me her name, but I have forgotten. I nevercould remember names. "

"Ladies, " said a young man, who noisily entered the box, "we are at lastenlightened. I have just questioned the box-keeper--she is a maid ofhonor to the Queen of Belgium. "

"And her name?" demanded five voices. 

"She has a Belgian name, unpronounceable by the box-keeper; somethinglike Wallen, or Meulen. "

"We are very much wiser. "

From the general commotion it was easy to perceive that the same subjectwas being discussed by the whole house, and doubtless in the sameterms; for people do not vary their formulas much on such occasions. 

A strain of music recalled to the stage every eye that during theintermission had been fastened upon one woman. I confess that I feltsome interest in the episode, but, owing to my habitual reserve, barelydiscovered by random and careless glances the young girl thus handedover to the curious glances of the fashionable world. She was in a boxof the first tier, and the native grace of her attitude first riveted myattention. The cynosure of all eyes, she bore her triumph with the easeof a woman accustomed to admiration. 

To appear unconscious she assumed with charming cleverness a pose ofartistic contemplation. One would have said that she was really absorbedin the music, or that she was following the advice of the Tuscan poet:

 "Bel ange, descendu d'un monde aérien, Laisse-toi regarder et ne regarde rien. "

From my position I could only distinguish the outline of her figure, except by staring through my glasses, which I regard as a politerudeness, but she seemed to merit the homage that all eyes looked andall voices sang. 

Once she appeared in the full blaze of the gas as she leaned forwardfrom her box, and it seemed as if an apparition by some theatro-opticaldelusion approached and dazzled me. 

The rapt attention of the audience, the mellow tones of the singer, theorchestral accompaniment full of mysterious harmony, seemed to awakenthe ineffable joy that love implants in the human heart. How muchweakness there is in the strength of man!

To travel for years over oceans, through deserts, among all varieties ofpeoples and sects; shipwrecked, to cling with bleeding hands tosea-beaten rocks; to laugh at the storm and brave the tiger in his lair;to be bronzed in torrid climes; to subject one's digestion to thebaleful influences of the salt seas; to study wisdom before the ruins ofevery portico where rhetoricians have for three thousand yearsparaphrased in ten tongues the words of Solomon, "All is vanity;" toreturn to one's native shores a used-up man, persuaded of the emptinessof all things save the overhanging firmament and the never-fading stars;to scatter the fancies of too credulous youth by a contemptuous smile, or a lesson of bitter experience, and yet, while boasting a victory overall human fallacies and weaknesses, to be enslaved by the melody of asong, the smile of a woman. 

Life is full of hidden mysteries. I looked upon the stranger's face witha sense of danger, so antagonistic to my previous tranquillity that Ifelt humiliated. 

By the side of the beautiful unknown, I saw a large fan open and shutwith a certain affectation, but not until its tenth movement did Iglance at its possessor. She was my nearest relative, the Duchess deLangeac. 

The situation now began to be interesting. In a moment the interludewould procure for me a position to be envied by every one in the house. At the end of the act I left my box and made a rapid tour of the lobbybefore presenting myself. The Duchess dispelled my embarrassment by acordial welcome. Women have a keen and supernatural perception abouteverything concerning love, that is alarming. 

The Duchess carelessly pronounced Mlle. De Chateaudun's name and mine, as if to be rid of the ceremonies of introduction as soon as possible, and touching a sofa with the end of her fan, said:

"My dear Roger, it is quite evident that you have come from everywhereexcept from the civilized world. I bowed to you twenty times, and youdeclined me the honor of a recognition. Absorbed in the music, Isuppose. La Favorita is not performed among the savages, so they remainsavages. How do you like our barytone? He has sung his aria withdelicious feeling. "

While the Duchess was indulging her unmeaning questions and comments, arapid and careless glance at Mlle. De Chateaudun explained theadmiration that she commanded from the crowded house. Were I to tell youthat this young creature was a pretty, a beautiful woman, I wouldfeebly express my meaning, such phrases mean nothing. It would require amaster hand to paint a peerless woman, and I could not make the attemptwhen the bright image of Irene is now surrounded by the gloomy shadowsof an afflicted heart. 

After the first exchange of insignificant words, the skirmish of aconversation, we talk as all talk who are anxious to appear ignorant ofthe fact that they are gazed upon by a whole assembly. 

Concealing my agitation under a strain of light conversation, "Mademoiselle, " I said, in answer to a question, "music is to-day thenecessity of the universe. France is commissioned to amuse the world. Suppress our theatre, opera, Paris, and a settled melancholy pervadesthe human family. You have no idea of the ennui that desolates thehemispheres. 

"Occasionally Paris enlivens the two Indias by dethroning a king. OnceCalcutta was _in extremis_, it was dying of the blues; the East Indiacompany was rich but not amusing; with all its treasure it could not buyone smile for Calcutta, so Paris sent Robert le Diable, La Muette dePortici, a drama or two of Hugo and Dumas. Calcutta became convalescentand recovered. Its neighbor, Chandernagore, scarcely existed then, butin 1842, when I left the Isle de Bourbon, La Favorita was announced; itplanted roses in the cheeks of the jaundiced inhabitants, and Madras, possessed by the spleen, was exorcised by William Tell. 

"Whenever a tropical city is conscious of approaching decline, shealways stretches her hands beseechingly to Paris, who responds withmusic, books, newspapers; and her patient springs into new life. 

"Paris does not seem to be aware of her influences. She detracts fromherself; says she is not the Paris of yesterday, the Paris of the greatcentury; that her influence is gone, she is in the condition of theLower Empire. 

"She builds eighty leagues of fortifications to sustain the siege ofMahomet II. She weeps over her downfall and accuses Heaven of denyingto her children of '44 the genius and talents that characterized thestatesmen and poets of her past. 

"But happily the universe does not coincide with Paris; go ask it;having just come from there, I know it. "

Indulging my traveller's extravagancies laughingly, to the amusement ofmy fair companion, she said:

"Truly your philosophy is of the happy school, and the burden of lifemust be very light when it is so lightly borne. "

"You must know, my dear Roger, " said the Duchess, feigningcommiseration, "that my young cousin, Mlle. De Chateaudun, is pitiablyunhappy, and you and I can weep over her lot in chorus with orchestralaccompaniment; poor child! she is the richest heiress in Paris. "

"How wide you are from the mark!" said Irene, with a charming look ofannoyance in the brightest eye that ever dazzled the sober senses ofman; "it is not an axiom that wealth is happiness. The poor spread sucha report, but the rich know it to be false. "

Here the curtain arose, and my return to my box explained my characteras the casual visitor and not the lover. And what intentions could Ihave had at that moment? I cannot say. 

I was attracted by the loveliness of Mlle. Chateaudun; chance gave theopportunity for studying her charms, the fair unknown improved onacquaintance. Hers was the exquisite grace of face and feature andwinningness of manner which attracts, retains and is never to beforgotten. 

From the superb tranquillity of her attitude, the intelligence of hereyes, it was easy to infer that a wider field would bring into actionthe hidden treasures of a gifted nature. Over the dazzling halo thatsurrounded the fair one, which left me the alternative of admiringsilence or heedless vagrancy of speech, one cloud lowered, eclipsing allher charms and bringing down my divinity from her pedestal--Irene was anheiress!

The Duchess had clipped the wings of the angel with the phrase of amarriage-broker. An heiress! the idea of a beautiful woman, full ofpoetry and love, inseparately linked to pounds, shillings and pence!

It was a day of amnesty to men, a fête day in Paradise, when God gave tothis young girl that crown of golden hair, that seraphic brow, thoseeyes that purified the moral miasma of earth. The ideal of poetry, thereality of my love!

Think of this living master-piece of the divine studio as the theme ofmoney-changers, the prize of the highest bidder!

Of course, my dear Edgar, I saw Mlle. De Chateaudun again and againafter this memorable evening; thanks to the facilities afforded me by mymanoeuvring kinswoman, the Duchess, who worshipped the heiress as Iworshipped the woman, I could Add a useless volume of romantic detailsleading you to the denouement, which you have already guessed, for youmust see in me the lover of Mlle. De Chateaudun. 

I wished to give you the beginning and end of my story; what do you carefor the rest, since it is but the wearisome calendar of all lovers?--Thejournal of a thousand incidents as interesting and important to twopeople as they are stupid and ridiculous to every one else. Each day wasone of progress; finally, we loved each other. Excuse the homelyplatitude in this avowal. 

Irene seemed perfect; her only fault, being an heiress, was lost in theintoxication of my love; everything was arranged, and in spite of hermoney I was to marry her. 

I was delirious with joy, my feet spurned the earth. My bliss was theecstasy of the blest. My delight seemed to color the contentment ofother men with gloom, and I felt like begging pardon for being so happy. It seemed that this valley of tears, astonished that any one should froma terrestrial paradise gaze upon its afflictions and still be happy, would revolt against me!

My dear Edgar, the smoke of hell has darkened my vision--I grope in thegloom of a terrible mystery--Vainly do I strive to solve it, and I turnto you for aid. 

Irene has left Paris! Home, street, city, all deserted! A damp, darknothingness surrounds me!

Not an adieu! a line! a message! to console me--

Women do such things--

I have done all in my power, and attempted the impossible to find Irene, but without success. If she only had some ground of complaint againstme, how happy I would be. 

A terrible thought possesses my fevered brain--she has fallen into somesnare, my marvellously beautiful Irene. 

Hide my sorrows, dear Edgar, from the world as I have hidden them. 

You would not have recognised the writer of this, had you seen him onthe boulevard this morning. I was a superb dandy, with the poses of aSybarite and the smiles of a young sultan. I trod as one in the clouds, and looked so benevolently on my fellow man that three beggars sued foraid as if they recognised Providence in a black coat. The lastobservation that reached my ear fell from the lips of an observingphilosopher:

"Heavens! how happy that young man must be!"

Dear Edgar, I long to see you. 

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

III. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, St. Dominique Street, Paris. 

RICHEPORT, 20th May, 18--

No, no, I cannot console you in Paris. I will escort your grief toSmyrna, Grand Cairo, Chandernagore, New Holland, if you wish, but Iwould rather be scalped alive than turn my steps towards thatfascinating city surrounded by fortifications. 

Your elegy found me moderately impressible. Fortune has apparentlyalways treated you like a spoiled child; were your misfortunes mine Ishould be delighted, and in your torment I should find a paradise. Adisappearance afflicts you with agony. I was forced to beat a retreatonce, but not from creditors; my debts are things of the past. You arefled from--I am pursued; and whatever you may say to the contrary, it ismuch more agreeable to be the dog than the hare. 

Ah! if the beauty that I adore (this is melo-dramatic) had onlyconceived such a triumphant idea! I should not be the one who--but noone knows when he is well off. This Mlle. Irene de Chateaudun pleasesme, for by this opportune and ingenious eclipse she prevents you fromcommitting a great absurdity. What put marriage into your head, forsooth! You who have housed with Bengal tigers and treated the lionsof Atlas as lapdogs; who have seen, like Don Caesar de Bazan, women ofevery color and clime; how could you have centred your affections uponthis Parisian doll, and chained the fancies of your cosmopolitan soul tothe dull, rolling wheel of domestic and conjugal duty?

So don't swear at her; bless her with a grateful heart, put a bill ofcredit in your pocket, and off we'll sail for China. We will make a holein the famous wall, and pry into the secrets of lacquered screens andporcelain cups. I have a strong desire to taste their swallow-nest soup, their shark's fins served with jujube sauce, the whole washed down bysmall glasses of castor oil. We will have a house painted apple-greenand vermilion, presided over by a female mandarin with no feet, circumflex eyes, and nails that serve as toothpicks. When shall I orderthe post-horses?

A wise man of the Middle Empire said that we should never attempt tostem the current of events. Life takes care of itself. The loss of yourfiancée proves that you are not predestined for matrimony, therefore donot attempt to coerce chance; let it act, for perhaps it is thepseudonym of God. 

Thanks to this very happy disappearance, your love remains young andfresh; besides, you have, in addition to the Pleasures of Memory, thePleasures of Hope (considered the finest work of the poet Campbell); forthere is nothing to show that your divinity has been translated to thatbetter world, where, however, no one seems over-anxious to go. 

Let not my retreat give rise to any unfavorable imputations against mycourage. Achilles, himself, would have incontinently fled if threatenedwith the blessings in store for me. From what oriental head-dresses, burnous affectedly draped, golden rings after the style of the Empressof the Lower Empire, have I not escaped by my prudence?

But this is all an enigma to you. You are in ignorance of my story, unless some too-well-posted Englishman hinted it to you in the temple ofElephanta. I will relate it to you by way of retaliation for the recitalof your love affair with Mlle. Irene de Chateaudun. 

You have probably met that celebrated blue-stocking called the "RomanticMarquise. " She is handsome, so the painters say; and, perhaps, they arenot far from right, for she is handsome after the style of an oldpicture. Although young, she seems to be covered with yellow varnish, and to walk surrounded by a frame, with a background of bitumen. 

One evening I found myself with this picturesque personage at Madame deBléry's. I was listlessly intrenched in a corner, far from the circle ofbusy talkers, just sufficiently awake to be conscious that I wasasleep--a delirious condition, which I recommend to your consideration, resembling the beginning of haschish intoxication--when by some turn inthe conversation Madame de Bléry mentioned my name and pointed me out. Iwas immediately awakened from my torpor and dragged out of my corner. 

I have been weak enough at times, as Gubetta says, to jingle words atthe end of an idea, or to speak more modestly, at the end of certainmeasured syllables. The Marquise, cognisant of the offence, but not ofthe extenuating circumstances, launched forth into praise and flatteringhyperbole that lifted me to the level of Byron, Goethe, Lamartine, discovered that I had a satanic look, and went on so that I suspected analbum. 

This affected me gloomily and ferociously. There is nothing I despisemore than an album, unless it be two of them. 

To avoid any such attempt, I broke into the most of the conversationwith several innocent provincialisms, and effected my retreat in amasterly manner; advancing towards the door by degrees, and reaching it, I sprang outside so suddenly and nimbly that I had gotten to the bottomof the stairs before my absence was discovered. 

Alas! no one can escape au album when it is predestined! The next day abook, magnificently bound in Russia, arrived in a superb moiré case inthe hands of a groom, with an accompanying note from the Infantasoliciting the honor, &c. 

All great men have their antipathies. James I. Could not look upon aglittering sword; Roger Bacon fainted at the sight of an apple; andblank paper fills me with melancholy. 

However, I resigned myself to the decrees of fate, and scribbled, Idon't know what, in the corner, and subscribed my initials as illegibleas those of Napoleon when in a passion. 

This, I flattered myself, was the end of the tragedy, but no: a few daysafterwards I received an invitation to a select gathering, in suchamiable terms that I resolved to decline it. 

Talleyrand said, "Never obey your first impulse, because it is good;" Iobeyed this Machiavellian maxim, and erred!

"_Eucharis_" was being performed at the opera; the sky was filled withugly, threatening clouds; I sought in vain for a companion to get tightwith, and moralize over a few bottles of wine, and so for want of agayer occupation I went to the Marquise. 

Her apartments are a perfect series of catafalques, and seem to havebeen upholstered by an undertaker. The drawing-room is hung in violetdamask; the bed-rooms in black velvet; the furniture is of ebony or oldoak; crucifixes, holy-water basins, folio bibles, death's-heads andponiards adorned the enlivening interior. Several Zurbarans, real orfalse, representing monks and martyrs, hung on the walls, frighteningvisitors with their grimaces. These sombre tints are intended tocontrast with the waxy cheeks and painted eyes of the lady who looksmore like the ghost than the mistress of this dwelling; for she does notinhabit, she haunts it. 

You must not think, dear Roger, from this funereal introduction, thatyour friend became the prey of a ghoul or a vampire. The Marquise ishandsome enough, after all. Her features are noble, regular, but alittle Jewish, which induces her to wear a turban earlier and oftenerthan is necessary. She would not be so pale, if instead of white she puton red. Her hands, though too thin, are rather pretty and aristocratic, and weighted heavily with odd-looking rings. Her foot is not too largefor her slipper. Uncommon thing! for women, in regard to their shoes, have falsified the geometrical axiom: the receptacle should be greaterthan its contents. 

She is, however, to a certain point, a gentlewoman, and holds a goodposition in society. 

I was received with all manner of caresses, stuffed with small cake, inundated with tea, of which beverage I hold the same opinion as MadameGibou. I was assailed by romantic and transcendental dissertations, butpossessing the faculty of abstraction and fixing my gaze upon the facetsof a crystal flagon, my attitude touched the Marquise, who believed meplunged into a gulf of thought. 

In short, I had the misfortune to charm her, and the weakness, like thegreater part of men, to surrender myself to my good or evil fortune;for this unhung canvas did not please me, and though tolerably stylishand pretty well preserved, I suspected some literature underneath, andclosely scanned the edge of her dress to see if some azure reflectionhad not altered the whiteness of her stocking. I abhor women who takeblue-ink baths. Alas! they are much worse than the avowed literarywoman; she affects to talk of nothing but ribbons, dress and bonnets, and confidentially gives you a receipt for preserving lemons and makingstrawberry cream; they take pride in not ignoring housekeeping, andfaithfully follow the fashions. At their homes ink, pen and paper arenowhere to be seen; their odes and elegies are written on the back of abill or on a page torn from an account-book. 

La Marquise contemplates reform, romances, social poetry, humanitarianand palingenesic treatises, and scattered about on the tables and chairswere to be seen solemn old books, dog-leaved at their most tiresomepages, all of which is very appalling. Nothing is more convenient than amuse whose complete works are printed; one knows then what to expect, and you have not always the reading of Damocles hanging over your head. 

Dragged by a fatality that so often makes me the victim of women I donot admire, I became the Conrad, the Lara of this Byronic heroine. 

Every morning she sent me folio-sized epistles, dated three hours aftermidnight. They were compilations from Frederick Soulié, Eugene Sue, andAlexander Dumas, glorious authors, whom I delight to read save in myamorous correspondence, where a feminine mistake in orthography gives memore pleasure than a phrase plagiarised from George Sand, or a pathetictirade stolen from a popular dramatist. 

In short, I do not believe in a passion told in language that smells ofthe lamp; and the expression "_Je t'aime_" will scarcely persuade me ifit be not written "_Je thême_. "

It made no difference how often the beauty wrote, I fortified myselfagainst her literary visitations by consigning her billets-doux unopenedto an empty drawer. By this means I was enabled to endure her prosewith great equanimity. But she expected me to reply--now, as I did notcare to keep my hand in for my next romance, I viewed her claims asextravagant and unreasonable, and feigning a strong desire to see mymother, I fled, less curious than Lot's wife, without looking behind. 

Had I not taken this resolution I should have died of ennui in thatdimly-lighted house, among those sepulchral toys, in the presence ofthat pale phantom enveloped in a dismal wrapper, cut in the monkishstyle, and speaking in a trembling and languishing tone of voice. 

La Trappe or Chartreuse would have been preferable--I would have gainedat least my salvation. Although it may be the act of a Cossack, ashocking irregularity, I have given her no sign of my existence, exceptthat I told her that my mother's recovery promised to be very slow, andshe would need the devoted attention of a good son. 

Judge, dear Roger, after this recital, of which I have subdued thehorrors and dramatic situations out of regard to your sensibility, whether I could return to Paris to be the comforter in your sorrow. YetI could brave an encounter with the Marquise were it not that I amretained in Normandy by an expected visit of two months from our friendRaymond. This fact certainly ought to make you decide to share oursolitude. Our friend is so poetical, so witty, so charming. He has butone fault, that of being a civilized Don Quixote de la Mancha; insteadof the helmet of Mambrino he wears a Gibus hat, a Buisson coat insteadof a cuirass, a Verdier cane by way of a lance. Happy nature! in whichthe heart is not sacrificed to the intellect; where the subtlety of adiplomate is united to the ingenuousness of a child. 

Since your ideal has fled, are not all places alike to you? Then whyshould you not come to me, to Richeport, but a step from Pont de l'Arch?

I am perched upon the bank of the river, in a strange old building, which I know will please you. It is an old abbey half in ruins, in whichis enshrined a dwelling, with many windows at regular intrevals, and issurmounted by a slate roof and chimneys of all sizes. It is built ofhewn stone, that time has covered with its gray leprosy, and the generaleffect, looking through the avenue of grand old trees, is fine. Here mymother dwells. Profiting by the walls and the half-fallen towers of theold enclosure, for the abbey was fortified to resist the Normaninvasions, she has made upon the brow of the hill a garden terracefilled with roses, myrtles and orange trees, while the green boxessurrounding them replace the old battlements. In this quarter of the olddomain, I have not interfered with any of these womanly fancies. 

She has collected around her all manner of pretty rusticities; all thecomfortable elegancies she could imagine. I have not opposed any systemof hot-air stoves, nor the upholstering of the rooms, nor objected tomahogany and ebony, wedgwood ware, china in blue designs, and Englishplate. For this is the way that middle-aged, and in fact, all reasonablepeople live. 

For myself, I have reserved the refectory and library of the bravemonks, that is, all that overlooks the river. I have not permitted theleast repairing of the walls, which present the complete flora of thenative wild flowers. An arched door, closed by old boards covered with aremnant of red paint, and opening on the bank, serves me as a privateentrance. A ferry worked by a rope and pulley establishes communicationwith an island opposite the abbey, which is verdant with a mass ofosiers, elder bushes and willows. It is here also that my fleet of boatsis moored. 

Seen from without, nothing would indicate a human habitation; the ruinslie in all the splendor of their downfall. 

I have not replaced one stone--walled up one lizard--the house-leek, St. John's-wort, bell-flower, sea-green saxifrage, woody nightshade and bluepopion flower have engaged in a struggle upon the walls of arabesques, and carvings which would discourage the most patient ornamentalsculptor. But above all, a marvel of nature attracts your admiring gaze:it is a gigantic ivy, dating back at least to Richard Coeur de Lion, itdefies by the intricacy of its windings those geneological trees ofJesus Christ, which are seen in Spanish churches; the top touching theclouds, and its bearded roots embedded in the bosom of the patriarchalAbraham; there are tufts, garlands, clusters, cascades of a green solustrous, so metallic, so sombre and yet so brilliant, that it seems asif the whole body of the old building, the whole life of the dead abbeyhad passed into the veins of this parasitic friend, which smothers withits embrace, holding in place one stone, while it dislodges two to plantits climbing spurs. 

You cannot imagine what tufted elegance, what richness of open-worktracery this encroachment of the ivy throws upon the rather gaunt andsharp gable-end of the building, which on this front has for ornamentbut four narrow-pointed windows, surmounted by three trefoilquadrilobes. 

The shell of the adjoining building is flanked at its angle by a turret, which is chiefly remarkable for its spiral stairway and well. The greatpoet who invented Gothic cathedrals would, in the presence of thisarchitectural caprice, ask the question, "Does the tower contain thewell, or the well the tower?" You can decide; you who know everything, and more besides--except, however, Mlle. De Chateaudun's place ofconcealment. 

Another curiosity of the old building is a moucharaby, a kind of balconyopen at the bottom, picturesquely perched above a door, from which thegood fathers could throw stones, beams and boiling oil on the heads ofthose tempted to assault the monastery for a taste of their good fareand a draught of their good wine. 

Here I live alone, or in the company of four or five choice books, in alofty hall with pointed roof; the points where the ribs intersect beingcovered with rosework of exquisite delicacy. This comprises my suite ofapartments, for I never could understand why the little space that isgiven one in this world to dream, to sleep, to live, to die in, shouldbe divided into a set of compartments like a dressing-case. I detesthedges, partitions and walls like a phalansterian. 

To keep off dampness I have had the sides of the market-house, as mymother calls it, wainscoted in oak to the height of twelve or fifteenfeet. 

By a kind of gallery with two stairways, I can reach the windows andenjoy the beauty of the landscape, which is lovely. My bed is a simplehammock of aloes-fibre, slung in a corner; very low divans, and hugetapestry arm-chairs, for the rest of the furniture. Hung up on thewainscoting are pistols, guns, masks, foils, gloves, plastrons, dumb-bells and other gymnastic equipments. My favorite horse isinstalled in the opposite angle, in a box of _bois des iles_, aprecaution that secures him from the brutalizing society of grooms, andkeeps him a horse of the world. 

The whole is heated by a cyclopean chimney, which devours a load of woodat a mouthful, and before which a mastodon might be roasted. 

Come, then, dear Roger, I can offer you a friendly ruin, the chapel withthe trefoil quadrilobes. 

We will walk together, axe in hand, through my park, which is as denseand impenetrable as the virgin forests of America, or the jungles ofIndia. It has not been touched for sixty years, and I have sworn tobreak the head of the first gardener who dares to approach it with apruning-hook. 

It is glorious to see the abandonment of Nature in this extravagance ofvegetation, this wild luxuriance of flowers and foliage; the treesstretch out their arms, breed and intertwine in the most fantasticmanner; the branches make a hundred curiously-distorted turns, andinterlace in beautiful disorder; sometimes hanging the red berries ofthe mountain-ash among the silver foliage of the aspen. 

The rapid slope of the ground produces a thousand picturesque accidents;the grass, brightened by a spring which at a little distance plays athousand pranks over the rocks, flourishes in rich luxuriance; theburdock, with large velvet leaves, the stinging nettles, the hemlockwith greenish umbels; the wild oats--every weed prospers wonderfully. Nostranger approaches the enclosure, whose denizens are two or threelittle deer with tawny coats gleaming through the trees. 

This eminently romantic spot would harmonize with your melancholy. Mlle. De Chateaudun not being in Paris, you have better chance of finding herelsewhere. 

Who knows if she has not taken refuge in one of these prettybird's-nests embedded in moss and foliage, their half-open blindsoverlooking the limpid flow of the Seine? Come quickly, my dear fellow;I will not take advantage of your position as I did of Alfred's, tooverwhelm you from my moucharaby with a shower of green frogs, a miraclewhich he has not been able to explain to his entire satisfaction. I willshow you an excellent spot to fish for white-bait; nothing calms thepassions so much as fishing with rod and line; a philosophicalrecreation which fools have turned into ridicule, as they do everythingelse they do not understand. 

If the fish won't bite, you can gaze at the bridge, its piers bloomingwith wild flowers and lavender; its noisy mills, its arches obstructedby nets; the church, with its truncated roof; the village covering thehill-side, and, against the horizon, the sharp line of woody hills. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN

IV. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ M. EDGAR DE MEILHAN, Richeport, near Pont de l'Arche (Eure). 

GRENOBLE, Hotel of the Prefecture, May 22d 18--. 

Do not expect me, dear Edgar, I shall not be at Richeport the 24th. Whenshall I? I cannot tell. 

I write to you from a bed of pain, bruised, wounded, burnt, half dead. It served me right, you will say, on learning that I am here for thecommission of the greatest crime that can be tried before your tribunal. It is only too true--I have saved the life of an ugly woman!

But I saved her at night, when I innocently supposed her beautiful--letthis be the extenuating circumstance. That no delay may attend yourdecision, here is the whole story. 

Travel from pole to pole--wander to and fro over the world, it is notimpossible, by God's help, to escape the thousand and one annoyancesthat are scattered over the surface of this terraqueous globe, but it isimpossible, go where you will, to evade England, the gayest nation to befound, especially in travelling. 

At Rome, this winter, Lord K. Told me seriously that he had set out fromLondon, some years since, with the one object of finding some corner ofthe earth on which no foot had ever trod before, and there to fix thefirst glorious impress of a British boot. The English occasionally, foramusement, indulge in such notions. 

After having examined a scale of the comparative heights of themountains of the universe, he noted the two highest points. Lord K. First reached the Peruvian Andes, and began to climb the sides ofChimborazo with that placidity, that sang-froid, which is thecharacteristic of an elevated soul instinctively attracted to realmsabove. 

Reaching the summit with torn feet and bleeding hands, he was about tofix a conqueror's grasp upon the rock, when he saw in one of thecrevices a heap of visiting-cards, placed there successively, during ahalf century, by two or three hundred of his compatriots. 

Disappointed but not discouraged, Lord K. Drew from his case a shining, satiny card, and having gravely added it to the many others, began todescend Chimborazo with the same coolness and deliberation that he hadclimbed up. 

Half way down he found himself face to face with Sir Francis P. , aboutto attempt the ascent that Lord K. Had just accomplished. Althoughalienated by difference of party, they were old friends, dating theiracquaintance, I believe, from the University of Oxford. 

Without appearing astonished at so unexpected an encounter, they bowedpolitely, and on Chimborazo, as in politics, went their separate ways. 

Betrayed by the New World, Lord K. Directed his steps towards the Old. He penetrated the heart of Asia, plunged into the Dobrudja region, andpaused only at the foot of Tschamalouri, upon the borders of Bootan. Itis fair that I should thus visit on you the formidable eruditioninflicted upon me by Milord. 

You must know, then, dear Edgar, that the Tschamalouri is the highestpeak of the Himalayan group. 

The Jungfrau, Mount Blanc, Mount Cervin, and Mount Rosa, piled one uponthe other, would make at best but a stepping-stone to it. Judge, then, of Milord's transports in the presence of this giant, whose hoary headwas lost in the clouds! They might rob him of Chimborazo, butTschamalouri was his. 

After a few days for repose and preparation, one fine morning atsunrise, behold Milord commencing the ascent, with the proudsatisfaction of a lover who sees his rival dancing attendance in theantechamber while he glides unseen up the secret stairway with a key tothe boudoir in his pocket. 

He journeyed up, and on the first day had passed the region oftempests. Passing the night in his cloak, he began again his task at thedawn of day. 

Nothing dismayed him--no obstacle discouraged him. He bounded like achamois from ridge to ridge, he crawled like a snake and hung like avine from the sharp arêtes--wounds and lacerations covered hisbody--after scorching he froze. The eagles whirled about his head andflapped their wings in his face. But on he went. His lungs, distended bythe rarified atmosphere, threatened to burst with an explosion akin to asteamboat's. Finally, after superhuman efforts, bleeding, panting, gasping for breath, Milord sank exhausted upon the rocks. 

What a labor! but what a triumph! what a struggle! but what a conquest!The thought of being able, the coming winter, to boast of having carvedhis name where, until then, God alone had written his. 

And Sir Francis! who would not fail to plume himself on the joint favorsof Chimborazo, how humiliated he would be to learn that Lord K. , morefastidious in his amours, more exalted in his ambition, had not, fourthousand fathoms above sea, feared to pluck the rose of Tschamalouri!

I remember that the first night I passed in Rome I heard in my sleep amysterious voice murmuring at my pillow: "Rome! Rome! thou art in Rome!"

Milord, shattered, sore and helpless, also heard a charming voicesinging sweetly in his ear: "Thou art stretched full length upon thesummit of Tschamalouri. "

This melody insensibly affected him as the balm of Fier-à-Bras. Herallied, he arose, and with radiant face, sparkling eyes and bosomswelling with pride, drew a poniard from its sheath and prepared to cuthis name upon the rock. Suddenly he turned pale, his limbs gave wayunder him, the knife dropped from his grasp and fell blunted upon therocks. What had he seen? What could have happened to so agitate him inthese inaccessible regions?

There, upon the tablet of granite where he was about to inscribe thename of his ancestors, he read, unhappy man, distinctly read, these twonames distinctly cut in the flint, "William and Lavinia, " with thefollowing inscription, in English, underneath: "Here, July 25th, 1831, two tender hearts communed. "

Surmounting the whole was a flaming double heart pierced by an arrow, anarrow that then pierced three hearts at once. The rock was coveredbesides with more than fifty names, all English, and as manyinscriptions, all English too, of a kindred character to the one he hadread. Milord's first impulse was to throw himself head foremost down themountain side; but, fortunately, raising his eyes in his despair, hediscovered a final plateau, so steep that neither cat nor lizard couldclimb it. Lord K. Became a bird and flew up, and what did he see? Oh, the vanity of human ambition! Upon the last round of the most giganticladder, extending from earth to heaven, Milord perceived Sir Francis, who, having just effected the same ascent from the other side of thecolossus, was quietly reading the "Times" and breakfasting upon a chopand a bottle of porter!

The two friends coolly saluted each other, as they had before done onthe side of Chimborazo; then, with death in his heart, but impassive andgrave, Lord K. Silently drew forth a box of conserves, a flask of aleand a copy of the "Standard. " The repast and the two journals beingfinished, the tourists separated and descended, each on his own side, without having exchanged a word. 

Lord K. Has never forgiven Sir Francis; they accuse each other ofplagiarism, a mortal hatred has sprung up between them, and thusTschamalouri finished what politics began. 

I had this story from Lord K. Himself, who drags out a disenchanted andgloomy existence, which would put an end to itself had he not in presentcontemplation a journey to the moon; still he is half convinced that hewould find Sir Francis there. 

Entertain your mother with this story, it would be improved by yournarration. 

You must agree with me that if the English grow four thousand fathomsabove the sea, the plant must necessarily thrive on the plains and thelow countries. It is acclimated everywhere, like the strawberry, withoutpossessing its sweet savor. 

Italy is, I believe, the land where it best flourishes. There I havetraversed fields of English, sown everywhere, mixed with a few Italians. 

But I would have been happy if I had encountered only Englishmen alongmy route. Some poet has said that England is a swan's nest in the midstof the waves. Alas! how few are the swans that come to us at longintervals, compared with the old ostriches in bristling plumage, and theyoung storks with their long, thin necks that flock to us. 

When in Rome only a few hours, and wandering through the Campo Vaccino, I found among the ruins one I did not seek. It was Lady Penock. I hadmet her so often that I could not fail to know her name. Edgar, you knowLady Penock; it is impossible that you should not. But if not, it iseasy for you to picture her to yourself. Take a keepsake, pick out oneof those faces more beautiful than the fairies of our dreams, so lovelythat it might be doubted whether the painter found his model among thedaughters of earth. Passionate lover of form, feast your eye upon thegraceful curve of that neck, those shoulders; gaze upon that pure browwhere grace and youth preside; bathe your soul in the soft brightness ofthat blue and limpid glance; bend to taste the perfumed breath of thatsmiling mouth; tremble at the touch of those blonde tresses, twined inbewildering mazes behind the head and falling over the temples in wavingmasses; fervent worshipper at the shrine of beauty, fall into ecstasies;then imagine the opposite of this charming picture, and you have LadyPenock. 

This apparition, in the centre of the ancient forum, completely upset mymeditations. J. J. Rousseau says in his Confessions that he forgot Mme. De Larnage in seeing the Pont du Gard. So I forgot the Coliseum at thesight of Lady Penock. Explain, dear Edgar, what fatality attended mysteps, that ever afterwards this baleful beauty pursued me?

Under the arches of the Coliseum, beneath the dome of St. Peter, inPagan Rome and in Catholic Rome, in front of the Laocöon, before theCommunion of St. Jerome, by Dominichino, on the banks of Lake Albano, under the shades of the Villa Borghese, at Tivoli in the Sibyl's temple, at Subiaco in the Convent of St. Benoit, under every moon and by everysun I saw her start up at my side. To get away from her I took flightand travelled post to Tuscany. I found her at the foot of the falls ofTerni, at the tomb of St. Francis d'Assise, under Hannibal's gate atSpoletta, at the table d'hote Perouse at Arezzo, on the threshold ofPetrarch's house; finally, the first person I met in the Piazza of theGrand Duke at Florence, before the Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini, Edgar, was Lady Penock. At Pisa she appeared to me in the Campo Santo; in theGulf of Genoa her bark came near capsizing mine; at Turin I found her atthe Museum of Egyptian Antiquities; her and no one else! And, what wasso amusing, my Lady on seeing me became agitated, blushed and lookeddown, and believing herself the object of an ungovernable passion, shemumbled through her long teeth, "Shocking! Shocking!"

Tired of war, I bade adieu to Italy and crossed the mountains; besides, dear country, I sighed to see you once more. I passed through Savoy andwhen I saw the mountains of Dauphiny loom up against the distant horizonmy heart beat wildly, my eyes filled with tears, and I felt like areturning exile, and know not what false pride restrained me fromspringing to the ground and kissing the soil of France!

Hail! noble and generous land, the home of intelligence and of liberty!On touching thee the soul swells within us, the mind expands; no childof thine can return to thy bosom without a throb of holy joy, a feelingof noble pride. I passed along filled with delirious happiness. Thetrees smiled on me, the winds whispered softly in my ear, the littleflowers that carpeted the wayside welcomed me; it required an effort torestrain myself from embracing as brothers the noble fellows that passedme on the way. 

Then, Edgar, I was to find you again, and it was the spot of mybirthplace, the paternal acres which in our common land seem to us asecond country. 

The night was dark, no moon, no stars; I had just left Grenoble and waspassing through Voreppe, a little village not without some importancebecause in the neighborhood of the Grande Chartreuse, which, at thisseason of the year, attracts more curiosity-hunters thanbelievers--suddenly the horses stopped, I heard a rumbling noiseoutside, and a crimson glare lighted up the carriage windows. I mighthave taken it for sunset, if the sun had not set long since. 

I got out and found the only inn of the village on fire; great was theconfusion in the small hamlet, there was a general screaming, strugglingand running about. The innkeeper with his wife, children, and servantsemptied the stables and barns. The horses neighed, the oxen bellowed, and the pigs, feeling that they were predestined to be roasted anyhow, offered to their rescuers an obstinate and philosophical resistance. 

Meantime the notables of the place, formed in groups, discussedmagisterially the origin of a fire which no one made an effort to stay. Left alone, it brightened the night, fired the surrounding hills andshot its jets and rockets of sparks far into the sky. You, a poet, wouldhave thought it fine. Sublime egotist that you are, everything iseffect, color, mirages, decorations. Endeavoring to make myself usefulin this disaster, I thought I heard it whispered around me that sometravellers remained in the inn, who, if not already destroyed, wereseriously threatened. 

Among others a young stranger was mentioned who had come that day fromthe Grande Chartreuse, which she had been visiting. I went straight tothe innkeeper who was dragging one of his restive pigs by the tail, reminding me of one of the most ridiculous pictures of Charlet. "Allright, " said the man, "all the travellers are gone, and as to those whoremain--" "Then some do remain?" I asked, and by insisting learned thatan Englishwoman occupied a room in the second story. 

I hate England--I hate it absurdly, in true, old-fashioned style. To meEngland is still "Perfidious Albion. "

You may laugh, but I hate in proportion to the love I bear my country. Ihate because my heart has always bled for the wounds she has opened inthe bosom of France. Yes, but coward is he who has the ability to save afellow-creature, yet folds his arms, deaf to pity! My enemy in the jawsof death is my brother. If need be I would jump into the flood to saveSir Hudson Lowe, free to challenge him afterwards, and try to kill himas I would a dog. 

The ground-floor of the inn was enveloped in flames. I took a ladder, and resting it against the sill, I mounted to the window that had beenpointed out to me. On the hospitable soil of France a stranger must notperish for want of a Frenchman to save him. Like Anthony, with one blowI broke the glass and raised the sash; I found myself in a passage thatthe fire had not reached. I sprang towards a door. --an excited voicesaid, "Don't come in. " I entered, looked around for the young stranger, and, immortal gods! what did I see? In the charming négligé of a beautysuddenly awakened, --you are right, it was she. Yes, my dear fellow, itwas Lady Penock--Lady Penock, who recognised and screamed furiously!"Madame, " said I, turning away with a sincere and proper feeling ofrespect, "you are mistaken. The house is on fire, and if you do notleave it"--"You! you!" she cried, "have set fire to it, like Lovelace, to carry me off. " "Madame, " said I, "we have no time to lose. " The floorsmoked under our feet, the rafters cracked over our heads, the flamesroared at the door, delay was dangerous; so, in spite of the eternalrefrain that sounded like the crying of a bird, --"Shocking! shocking!" Idragged Lady Penock from behind the bed where she cowered to escape mywild embraces, picked her up as if she were a stick of dry wood, andbearing the precious burden, appeared at the top of the ladder. Meanwhile the fire raged, the flames and the smoke enveloped us on allsides. "For pity's sake, madame, " said I, "don't scream and kick so. " Mylady screamed all the louder and struggled all the worse. When half waydown the ladder she said, "Young man, go back immediately, I haveforgotten something very valuable to me. " At these words the roof fellin, the walls crumbled away, the ladder shook, the earth opened under myfeet, and I felt as if I were falling into the abyss of Taenarus. 

I awoke, under an humble roof whose poor owner had received me. 

I had a fracture of my shoulder, and three doctors by my side. I haveknown many men to die with less. As for Lady Penock, I learned withsatisfaction of her escape, barring a sprained ankle; she had departedindignant at the impertinence of my conduct, and to the people who hadcharitably suggested to her to instal herself as a gray nun at thebedside of her preserver, she said, coloring angrily, "Oh, I should dieif I were to see that young man again. "

Be reassured, France has again atoned for Albion. My adventure havingmade some noise, a few days after the fire Providence came into my roomand sat beside my bed in the shape of a noble woman named Madame deBraimes. 

It appears that M. De Braimes has been, for a year past, prefect ofGrenoble; that he knew my father intimately, and my name sufficed tobring these two noble beings to my side. 

As soon as I could bear the motion of a carriage, they took me fromVoreppe, and I am now writing to you, my dear Edgar, from the hotel ofthe Prefecture. 

I received in Florence the last letter you directed to me at Rome. Whata number of questions you ask, and how am I to answer them all?

Don't speak to me of Jerusalem, Cedron, Lebanon, Palmyra and Baalbec, oranything of the sort. Read over again Réné's Guide-book, Jocelyn'sTravels, the Orientales of Olympio, and you will know as much about theEast as I do, though I have been there, according to your account, forthe last two years. However, I have performed all the commissions yougave me, on the eve of my departure, three years ago. I bring you pipesfrom Constantinople, to your mother chaplets from Bethlehem--only Ibought the pipes at Leghorn, and the chaplets at Rome. 

Do you remember a cold, rainy December evening in Paris, eighteen monthsago, when I should have been on the borders of Afghanistan, or theshores of the Euphrates, you were walking along the quays, betweeneleven o'clock and midnight, walking rapidly, wrapped like a Castilianin the folds of your cloak?

Do you remember that between the Pont Neuf and the Pont Saint Michel youstumbled against a young man, enveloped likewise in a cloak, andfollowing rapidly the course of the Seine in a direction opposite toyours? The shock was violent, and nailed us both to the spot. Do youremember that having scrutinized each other under the gaslight, youexclaimed, "Raymond, " and opened your arms to embrace me; then, seeingthe cold and reserved attitude of him who stood silently before you, howyou changed your mind and went your way, laughing at the mistake butstruck by the resemblance?

The resemblance still exists; the young man that you called Raymond, wasRaymond. 

One more story, and I have done. I will tell it without pride orpretence, a thing so natural, so simple, that it is neither worthboasting of nor concealing. 

You know Frederick B. You remember that I have always spoken of him as abrother. We played together in the same cradle; we grew up, as it were, under the same roof. At school I prepared his lessons: out of gratitudehe ate my sugar-plums. At college I performed his tasks and fought hisbattles. At twenty, I received a sword-thrust in my breast on hisaccount. Later he plunged into matrimony and business, and we lost sightof, without ceasing to love each other. I knew that he prospered, and Iasked nothing more. As for myself, tired of the sterile life I wasleading, called fashionable life, I turned my fortune into ready money, and prepared to set out on a long journey. 

The day of my departure--I had bidden you good-bye the eveningbefore--Frederick entered my room. A year had nearly passed since wehad met; I did not know that he was in Paris. I found him changed; hispreoccupied air alarmed me. However, I concealed my anxiety. We cannottreat with too much reserve and delicacy the sadness of our marriedfriends. As he talked, two big tears rolled silently down his cheeks. Ihad to speak. 

"What is the matter?" I asked abruptly; and I pressed him withquestions, tormented him until he told me all. Bankruptcy was at hisdoor; and he spoke of his wife and children in such heart-rending terms, that I mingled my tears with his, thinking of course that I was not richenough to give him the money he needed. 

"My poor Frederic, " I finally said, "is it such a very large amount?" Hereplied with a gesture of despair. "Come, how much?" I asked again. 

"Five hundred thousand francs!" he cried, in a gloomy stupor. I arose, took him by the arm, and under the pretext of diverting him, drew him onthe boulevards. I left him at the door of my notary and joined him oncoming out. "Frederick, " I said, giving him a line I had just written, "take that and hasten to embrace your wife and children. " Then I jumpedinto a cab which carried me home; my journey was over. I returned fromJerusalem. 

Dupe! I hear you say, Ah, no, Edgar! I am young and I understand men, but there dwell in them both the good and the beautiful, and to expectto derive any other satisfaction than that found in cultivating thesequalities has always seemed to me to be an unreasonable expectation. 

What! you, as a poet, enjoy the intoxication of inspiration, the feastof solitude, the silence of serene and starry nights and that does notsatisfy you; you would have fortune hasten to the sound of the Muses'kisses. 

What! as a generous man, you can enjoy the delights of giving and onlysow a field of benefits in the hope of reaping some day the goldenharvest of gratitude!

Of what do you complain? wretched man! You are the ingrate. Besides, even with this view, be convinced, dear Edgar, that the good and thebeautiful are still two of the best speculations that can be made herebelow, and nothing in the world succeeds better than fine verses andnoble deeds. Only wicked hearts and bad poets dare to affirm thecontrary. For myself, experience has taught me that self-abnegation isprofit enough to him who exercises it, and disinterestedness is ablossom of luxury that well cultivated bears most savory fruit. Iencountered fortune in turning my back on her. I owe to Lady Penock thetouching care and precious friendship of Madame de Braimes, and if thissystem of remuneration continue I shall end by believing that inthrowing myself into the gulf of Curtius I would fall upon a bed ofroses. 

The fact is, I was ruined, but whoever could have seen me at the momentwould have said I was overcome with delight. I must tell you all, Edgar;I pictured to myself the transports of Frederick and his wife on seeingthe abyss that was about to engulf them so easily closed; these sweetimages alone did not cause my wild delight; would you believe it, thethought of my ruin and poverty intoxicated me more. I had suffered for along time from an unoccupied youth, and was indignant at my uneventfullife. At twenty I quietly assumed a position prepared for me; to playthis part in the world I had taken the trouble to be born; to gather thefruits of life I had only to stretch out my hand. Irritated at thequietude of my days, wearied with a happiness that cost me nothing, Isought heroic struggles, chivalrous encounters, and not finding them ina well-regulated society, where strong interests have been substitutedfor strong passions, I fretted in secret and wept over my impotence. 

But now my hour was come! I was about to put my will, strength andcourage to the proof. I was about to wrest from study the secrets oftalent. I was about to reclaim from labor the fortune I had given away, and which I owed to chance. Until that deed I had only been the son ofmy father, the heir of my ancestors; now I was to become the child of myown deeds. The prisoner who sees his chains fall off and sends toheaven a wild shout of liberty, does not feel a deeper joy than I feltwhen ready to struggle with destiny I could exclaim, "I am poor!"

I have seen everywhere _blasé_ young men, old before their time, who, according to their own account, have known and exhausted every pleasure;have felt the nothingness of human things. 'Tis true these youngunfortunates have tried everything but labor and devotion to some holycause. 

There remained of my patrimony fifteen thousand francs, which were laidaside to defray my travelling expenses. This, with a very moderaterevenue accruing from two little farms, contiguous to the castle of myfather, made up my possessions. 

Putting the best face on things, supposing I might recover my fortune, an event so uncertain that it were best not to count on it, I wiselytraced the line of duty with a firm hand and joyous heart. 

I decided immediately that I would not undeceive my friends as to mydeparture, and that I would employ, in silence and seclusion, the time Iwas supposed to be spending abroad. 

Not that it did not occur to me to proclaim boldly what I had done, forin a country where a dozen wretches are every year publicly beheaded forthe sake of example, perhaps it would be well also, for example's sake, to do good publicly. To do this, however, would have been to compromiseFrederick's credit, who, besides, would never have accepted my sacrificeif he could have measured its extent. 

I could have retired to my estates; but felt no inclination to make anexposure of my poverty to the comments of a charitable province; nor hadI taste for the life of a ruined country squire. 

Besides, solitude was essential to my plans, and solitude is impossibleout of Paris; one is never really lost save in a crowd. I soon found inthe Masario a little room very near the clouds, but brightened by therising sun, overlooking a sea of verdure marked here and there by a fewnorthern pines, with their gloomy and motionless branches. 

This nest pleased me. I furnished it simply, filled it with books andhung over my bed the portrait of my sainted mother, who seemed to smileon and encourage me, while you, Frederick and others believed mesteaming towards the shores of the East; and here I quietly installedmyself, prouder and more triumphant than a soldier of fortune takingpossession of a kingdom. 

Edgar, these two years I really lived--. In that little room I spentwhat will remain, I very much fear, the purest, the brightest, the bestperiod of my whole life. I am not of much account now, formerly I wasnothing; the little good that is in me was developed in those two yearsof deep vigils. I thought, reflected, suffered and nourished myself withthe bread of the strong. I initiated myself into the stern delights ofstudy, the austere joys of poverty. 

O! days of labor and privation, beautiful days! Where have you gone?Holy enchantments, shall I ever taste you again? Silent and meditativenights! when at the first glimmer of dawn I saw the angel of reveryalight at my side, bend his beautiful face over me, and fold my weariedlimbs in his white wings; blissful nights! will you ever return?

If you only knew the life I led through these two years! If you knewwhat dreams visited me in that humble nest by the dim light of the lamp, you would be jealous of them, my poet!

The days were passed in serious study. At evening I took my frugalrepast, in winter, by the hearth, in summer by the open window. InDecember I had guests that kings might have envied. Hugo, George Sand, Lamartine, De Musset, yourself, dear Edgar. In April I had the softbreezes, the perfume of the lilacs, the song of the birds warbling amongthe branches, and the joyous cries of the children playing in thedistant alleys, while the young mothers passed slowly through the freshgrass, their faces wreathed with sweet smiles, like the happy shadowsthat wander through the Elysian fields. 

Sometimes on a dark night I would venture into the streets of Paris, myhat drawn over my eyes to keep out the glare of gas. On one of thesesolitary rambles I met you. Imagine the courage I required not to rushinto your open arms. I returned frequently along the quays, listening tothe confused roar, like the distant swell of the ocean, made by thegreat city before falling to sleep, listening to the murmurs of theriver and gazing at the moon like a burning disk from the furnace, slowly rising behind the towers of Notre Dame. 

Often I prowled under the windows of my friends, stopping at yours tosend you a good-night. 

Returning home I would rekindle my fire and begin anew my labors, interrupted from time to time by the bells of the neighboring conventsand the sound of the hours striking sadly in the darkness. 

O! nights more beautiful than the day. It was then that I felt germinateand flourish in my heart a strange love. 

Opposite me, beyond the garden that separated us, was a window, in astory on a level with mine; it was hid during the day by the tall pines, but its light shone clear and bright through the foliage. This lamp waslit invariably at the same hour every evening and was rarelyextinguished before dawn. There, I thought, one of God's poor creaturesworks and suffers. Sometimes I rose from my desk to look at this littlestar twinkling between heaven and earth, and with my brow pressedagainst the pane gazed sadly at it. 

In the beginning it excited me to watch, and I made it a point of honornever to extinguish my lamp as long as the rival lamp was burning; atlast it became the friend of my solitude, the companion of my destiny. Iended by giving it a soul to understand and answer me. I talked to it; Iquestioned. I sometimes said, "Who art thou?"

Now I imagined a pale youth enamored with glory, and called him mybrother. Then it was a young and lovely Antigone, laboring to sustainher old father, and I called her my sister, and by a sweeter name too. Finally, shall I tell you, there were moments when I fancied that thelight of our fraternal lamps was but the radiance of two mysterioussympathies, drawn together to be blended into one. 

One must have passed two years in solitude to be able to comprehendthese puerilities. How many prisoners have become attached to somewall-flower, blooming between the bars of their cell, like the Marvel ofPeru of the garden, which closes to the beams of day to open its petalsto the kisses of the evening; the flower that I loved was a star. Anxiously I watched its awakening, and could not repose until it haddisappeared. Did it grow dim and flicker, I cried--"Courage and hope!God blesses labor, he keeps for thee a purer and brighter seat inheaven!"

Did I in turn feel sad, it threw out a brighter light and a voice said, "Hope, friend, I watch and suffer with thee!" No! I cannot but believenow that between that lamp and mine there passed an electric current, bywhich two hearts, created for each other, communicated with andunderstood their mutual pulsations. Of course I tried to find the houseand room from whence shone my beloved light, but each day I received anew direction that contradicted the one they gave before; so I concludedthat the occupant of this room had an object, like myself, inconcealment, and I respected his secret. 

Thus my life glided by--so much happiness lasted too short a time!

The gods and goddesses of Olympus had a messenger named Iris, whocarried their billets-doux from star to star. We mortals have a fairy inour employ that leaves Iris far behind; this fairy is called the post;dwell upon the summit of Tschamalouri, and some fine morning you willsee the carrier arrive with his box upon his shoulder, and a letter toyour address. One evening, on returning from one of those excursions Itold you of, I found at my porter's a letter addressed to me. I neverreceive letters without a feeling of terror. This, the only one in twoyears, had a formidable look; the envelope was covered with odd-lookingsigns, and the seal of every French consulate in the East; under thismultitude of stamps was written in large characters--"In haste--veryimportant. " The square of paper I held in my hand had been in search ofme from Paris to Jerusalem, and from consulate to consulate, hadreturned from Jerusalem to Paris, to the office of the Minister ofForeign Affairs. There they had let loose some blood-hounds of thepolice, who with their usual instinct followed my tracks and discoveredmy abode in less than a day. 

I glanced first at the signature, and saw Frederick's name; I vow, unaffectedly, that for two years I had not thought of his affairs, andhis letter brought me the first news of him. 

After a preamble, devoted entirely to the expression of an exaggeratedgratitude, Frederick announced with a flourish of trumpets, that Fortunehad made magnificent reparation for her wrongs to him; he had saved hishonor and strengthened his tottering credit. From which time forward hehad prospered beyond his wildest hopes. In a few months he gained, by arise in railroad stocks, fabulous sums. He concluded with theinformation that, having interested me in his fortunate speculations, mycapital was doubled, and that I now possessed a clear million, which Iowed to no one. At the end of this letter, bristling with figures andterms that savoured of money, were a few simple, touching lines fromFrederick's wife, which went straight to my heart, and brought tears tomy eyes. 

When I had read the letter through, I took a long survey of my littleroom, where I had lived so happily; then, sitting upon the sill of theopen window, whence I could see my faithful star shine peacefully in thedarkness, I remained until morning, absorbed in sad and melancholythoughts. 

Fortune has its duties as well as poverty. _Comme noblesse, fortuneexige_. 

If I were really so rich, I could not, ought not to live as I had done. After a few days, I went to Frederick, who believed that I had suddenlybeen brought from Jerusalem by his letter, and I allowed him to rest inthat belief, not wishing to add to a gratitude that already seemedexcessive. 

Excuse the particulars, I was a veritable millionaire; I call Heaven towitness that my first impulse was to go in search of my beloved beacon, to relieve, if possible, the unfortunate one to whom it gave light. 

But then I thought so industrious a being was certainly proud, and Ipaused, fearing to offend a noble spirit. 

One month later, a night in May, I saw extinguished one by one, thethousand lights of the neighboring houses. Two single lamps burned inthe gloom; they were the two old friends. For some time I stood gazingat the bright ray shining through the foliage, and when I felt upon mybrow the first chill of the morning breeze, I cried in my saddenedheart, "Farewell! farewell, little star, benign ray, beloved companion of mysolitude! At this hour to-morrow, my eyes will seek but find thee not. And thou, whosoever thou art, working and suffering by that pale gleam, adieu, my sister! adieu, my brother! pursue thy destiny, watch and pray;may God shorten the time of thy probation. "

I bade also to my little room, not an eternal farewell, for I have keptit since, and will keep it all my life. I do not wish that while I livestrangers shall scare away such a covey of beautiful dreams as I left inthat humble nest. 

To see it again is one of the liveliest pleasures that my return toParis offers. I shall find everything in the same order as when I left;but will the little star shine from the same corner of the heavens?

Thanks to Frederick's care my affairs were in order, and I set outimmediately for Rome, because when one is expected from the end of theworld one must at least return from somewhere. 

Such is, dear Edgar, the history of my journeys and my love affairs. Keep them sacred. We are all so worthless, that, when one of us doessome good by chance, he should remain silent for fear of humiliating hisneighbor. 

My health once established, I shall go to my mountains of Creuse andthen come to you. Do not expect me until July; at that time Don Quixotewill make his appearance under the apple trees of Richeport, provided, however, he is not caught up on this route by Lady Penock or somewindmill. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS. 

V. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR DE MEILHAN, Richeport, Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure). 

PARIS, 24th May, 18--, Your letter did me good, my dear Edgar, because it came unexpected, fromthe domain of epistolary consolation. From any friend but you I wouldhave received a sympathizing re-echo of my own accents of despair. Fromyou I looked for a tranquillizing sedative, and you surprise me with areanimating restorative. 

Your charming philosophy has indeed invented for mortals a remedyunknown to the four faculties. 

Thanks to you, I breathe freely this morning. 'Tis necessary for us totake breath during ardent crises of despair. A deep breath brings backthe power of resignation to our hearts. Yet I am not duped by your tooskilful friendship. I clearly perceive the interest you take in mysituation in spite of your artistically labored adroitness to concealit. This knowledge induces me to write you the second chapter of myhistory, quite sure that you will read it with a serious brow and answerit with a smiling pen. 

Young people of your disposition, either from deep calculation or byhappy instinct, substitute caprice for passion; they amuse themselves bywalking by the side of love, but never meet it face to face. For themwomen exist, but never one woman. This system with them succeeds for aseason, sometimes it lasts for ever. I have known some old men who madethis scheme the glory of their lives, and who kept it up from mere forceof habit till their heads were white. 

You, my dear Edgar, will not have the benefit of final impenitence. Atpresent the ardor of your soul is tempered by the suave indolence ofyour disposition. 

Love is the most merciless and wearisome of all labors, and you are fartoo lazy to toil at it. When you suddenly look into the secret depthsof your _self_, you will be frightened by discovering the germ of aserious passion; then you will try to escape on the wings of fancy tothe realms of easy and careless pleasure. The fact of my havingpenetrated, unknown to you, this secret recess of your soul, makes meventure to confide my sorrows to you; continue to laugh at them, yourrailing will be understood, while friendship will ignore the borrowedmask and trust in the faithful face beneath. 

Paris is still a desert. The largest and most populous city becomesobscure and insignificant at your feet when you view it from the heightsof an all-absorbing passion. I feel as isolated as if I were on theSouth Sea or on the sands of Sahara. Happily our bodies assumemechanical habits that act instead of the will. Without this preciousfaculty of matter my isolation would lead me to a dreamy and stupidimmobility. Thus, in the eyes of strangers, my life is always the same. They see no change in my manners and appearance; I keep up myacquaintances and pleasures and seek the society of my friends. I havenot the heart to join a conversation, but leave it to be carried on byothers. My fixed attention and absorbed manner of listening convey theidea that I am deeply interested in what is being said, and he whoundertakes to relate anything to me is so satisfied with my style oflistening that he prolongs to infinity his monologue. Then my thoughtstake flight and travel around the world; to the seas, archipelagoes, continents and deserts I have visited. These are the only moments ofrelief that I enjoy, for I have the modesty to refrain from thinking ofmy love in the presence of others. I still possess enough innocence ofheart to believe that the four letters of this sweetest of all wordswould be stamped on my brow in characters of fire, thus betraying asecret that indifference responds to with pitying smiles or heartlessjeers. 

The thousand memories sown here and there in my peregrinations pass sovividly before me, that, standing in the bright sunlight, with eyesopen, I dream over again those visions of my sleepless nights in foreignlands. 

Thought, ever-rebellious thought, which the most imperious will canneither check nor guide, begins to wander over the world, thus kindlygranting a truce to the torments of my passions; then it works to suitmy wishes, a complaisance it never shows me when I am alone. I amindebted for this relief to the officious and loquacious intervention ofthe first idler I meet, one whose name I scarcely know, although hecalls me his friend. I always gaze with a feeling of compassionatebenevolence upon the retreating steps of this unfortunate gossip, wholeaves with the idea of having diverted me by his monologue to which myeyes alone have listened. As a general thing, people whom you meet havestarted out with one dominant idea or engrossing subject, and theyimagine that the universe is disposed to attach the same importance tothe matter that they themselves do. These expectations are oftengratified, for the streets are filled by hungry listeners who wanderaround with ears outstretched, eager to share any and everybody'ssecrets. 

A serious passion reveals to us a world within a world. Thus far, allthat I have seen and heard seems to be full of error; men and thingsassume aspects under which I fail to recognise them. It seems as thoughI had yesterday been born a second time, and that my first life has leftme nothing but confused recollections, and in this chaos of the past, Ivainly seek for a single rule of conduct for the present. I have dippedinto books written on the passions; I have read every sentence, aphorism, drama, tragedy and romance written by the sages; I have soughtamong the heroes of history and of the stage for the human expression ofa sentiment to which my own experience might respond, and which wouldserve me as a guide or consolation. 

I am, as it were, in a desert island where nothing betrays the passageof man, and I am compelled to dwell there without being able to tracethe footsteps of those who have gone before. Yesterday I was present atthe representation of the _Misanthrope_. I said to myself, here is a manin love; his character is drawn by a master hand, they say; he listensto sonnets, hums a little song, disputes with a bad author, discoursesat length with his rivals, sustains a philosophical disputation with afriend, is churlish to the woman he loves, and finally is consoled bysaying he will hide himself from the eyes of the world. 

I would erect, at my own expense, a monument to Molière if Alceste wouldmake my love take this form. 

I have never seen an inventory of the torments of love--some of themhave the most vulgar and some the most innocent names in the world. Somepoet make his love-sick hero say:--

 "Un jour, Dieu, par pitié, délivra les enfers Des tourments que pour vous, madame, j'ai soufferts!"

I thought the poet intended to develop his idea, but unfortunately thetirade here ends. 'Tis always very vague, cloudy poetry that describesunknown torments; it seems to be a popular style, however, for all thepoetry of the present day is confined to misty complaints in cloudylanguage. No moralist is specific in his sorrows. All lovers cry out inchorus that they suffer horribly. Each suffering deserves an analysisand a name. By way of example, my dear Edgar, I will describe onetorment that I am sure you have never known or even heard of, happymortal that you are!

The headquarters of this torment is at the office of the Poste-Restante, on Jean-Jacques-Rousseau street. The lovers in _la Nouvelle Héloise_never mentioned this place of torture, although they wrote so manylove-letters. 

I have opened a correspondence with three of my servants--thistorture, however, is not the one to which I allude. These three men, atthis present moment, are sojourning in the three neighboring towns inwhich Mlle. De Chateaudun has acquaintances, relations or friends. Oneof these towns is Fontainebleau, where she first went when she leftParis. I have charged them to be very circumspect in obtaining all theinformation they can concerning her movements. Her mysterious retreatmust be in one of these three localities, so I watch them all. I toldthem to direct all my letters to the Poste-Restante. 

My porter, with the cunning sagacity of his profession, imagines he hasdiscovered some scandalous romance, because he brings me every day aletter in the handwriting of my valet. You may imagine the complicationof my torment. I am afraid of my porter, therefore I go myself to thepost-office, that receptacle of all the secrets of Paris. 

Usually the waiting-room is full of wretched men, each an epistolaryTantalus, who, with eyes fixed on the wooden grating, implore the clerkfor a post-marked deception. 'Tis a sad spectacle, and I am sure thatthere is a post-office in purgatory, where tortured souls go to inquireif their deliverance has been signed in heaven. 

The clerks in the post-office never seem to be aware of the impatientmurmurs around them. What administrative calmness beams on the freshfaces of these distributors of consolation and of despair! In the agonyof waiting, minutes lose their mathematical value, and the hands of theclock become motionless on the dial like impaled serpents. Theoperations of the office proceed with a slowness that seems like aminiature eternity. This anxious crowd stand in single file, forming aliving chain of eager notes of interrogation, and, as fate alwaysreserves the last link for me, I have to witness the filing-off of thesetroubled souls. This office brings men close together, and obliteratesall social distinctions; in default of letters one always receiveslessons of equality gratis. 

Here you see handsome young men whose dishevelled locks and pale facesbear traces of sleepless nights--the Damocles of the Bourse, who feelsthe sword of bankruptcy hanging over his head--forsaken sweethearts, whose hopes wander with beating drums upon African shores--timid womenveiled in black, weeping and mourning for the dead, so as to smile moreeffectively upon the living. 

If each person were to call out the secret of his letter, the clerksthemselves would veil their faces and forget the postal alphabet. Apainful silence reigns over this scene of anxious waiting; at longintervals a hoarse voice calls out his Christian name, and woe to itsowner if his ancestors have not bequeathed him a short or easilypronounced one. 

The other day I was present at a strange scene caused by the associationof seven syllables. An unhappy-looking wretch went up to the railing andgave out his name--_Sidoine Tarboriech_--these two words inflicted on usthe following dialogue:--"Is it all one name?" asked the clerk, withoutdeigning to glance at the unfortunate owner of these syllables. "Twonames, " said the man, timidly, as if he were fully aware of the disgraceinflicted upon him at the baptismal font. "Did you say _Antoine_?" saidthe clerk. "Sidoine, Monsieur. " "Is it your Christian name?" "'Tis thename of my godfather, Saint Sidoine, 23 of August. " "Ah! there is aSaint Sidoine, is there? Well, Sidoine . . . Sidoine--what else?""Tarboriech. " "Are you a German?" "From Toulon, opposite the Arsenal. "

During this dialogue the rest of the unfortunates broke their chain withconvulsive impatience, and made the floor tremble under the nervousstamping of their feet. The clerk calmly turned over with hismethodically bent finger, a large bundle of letters, and wouldoccasionally pause when the postal hieroglyphics effaced an addressunder a total eclipse of crests, seals and numbers recklessly heaped on;for the clerk who posts and endorses the letters takes great pains tocover the address with a cloud of ink, this little peculiarity allpostmen delight in. But to return to our dialogue: "Excuse me, sir, "said the clerk, "did you say your name is spelt with _Dar_ or _Tar_?""_Tar_, sir, _Tar!_ "--"With a _D?_"--"No, sir, with a _T. , Tarboriech!_" "We have nothing for you, sir. " "Oh, sir, impossible!there certainly _must_ be a letter for me. " "There is no letter, sir;nothing commencing with T. " "Did you look for my Christian name, Sidoine?" "But, sir, we don't arrange the mail according to Christiannames. " "But you know, sir, I am a younger son, and at home I am calledSidoine. "

This interesting dialogue was now drowned by the angry complaining ofsome young men, who in a state of exasperation stamped up and down theroom jerking out an epigrammatic psalm of lamentations. I'll give you afew verses of it: "Heavens! some names ought to be suppressed! This isgetting to be intolerable, when a man has the misfortune to be named_Extasboriech_, he ought _not_ to have his letters sent to the_Poste_-Restante! If I were afflicted with such a name, I would have theKeeper of the Seals to change it. "

The imperturbable clerk smiled blandly through his little barred window, and said, "Gentlemen, we must do our duty scrupulously, I only do forthis gentleman what each of you would wish done for yourself undersimilar circumstances. "

"Oh, of course!" cried out one young man, who was wildly buttoning andunbuttoning his coat as if he wanted to fight the subject through; "butwe are not cursed with names so abominable as this man's!"

"Gentlemen, " said the clerk, "no offensive personalities, I beg. " Thenturning to the miserable culprit, he continued: "Can you tell me, sir, from what place you expect a letter?" "From Lavalette, monsieur, in theprovince of Var. " "Very good; and you think that perhaps your Christianname only is on the address--Sidoine?"

"My cousin always calls me Sidoine. "

"His cousin is right, " said a sulky voice in the corner. 

This, my dear Edgar, is a sample of the non-classified tortures that Isuffer every morning in this den of expiation, before I, the last one ofall, can reach the clerk's sanctuary; once there I assume a careless airand gay tone of voice as I negligently call out my name. No doubt youthink this a very simple, easy thing to do, but first listen a moment: Ifelt the "Star" gradually sinking under me near the Malouine Islands, the sixty-eighth degree of latitude kept me a prisoner in its sea of iceat the South Pole; I passed two consecutive days and nights on board the_Esmerelda_, between fire and inundation; and if I were to extract thequintessence of the agonies experienced upon these three occasions itcould never equal the intense torture I suffer at the Poste-Restante. Three seals broken, three letters opened, three overwhelmingdisappointments! Nothing! nothing! nothing! Oh miserable synonym ofdespair! Oh cruel type of death! Why do you appear before me each dayas if to warn my foolish heart that all hope is dead! Then how drearyand empty to me is this cold, unfeeling world we move in! I feeloppressed by the weight of my sorrowful yearning that hourly grows moreunbearable and more hopeless; my lungs seem filled with leaden air, andall the blood in my heart stands still. In thinking of the time thatmust be dragged through till this same hour to-morrow, I feel neitherthe strength nor courage to endure it with its intolerable succession ofeternal minutes. How can I bridge over this gulf of twenty-four hoursthat divides to-day from to-morrow? How false are all the ancient andmodern allegories, invented to afflict man with the knowledge that hisdays are rapidly passing away! How foolish is that wisdom that mournsover our fugitive years as being nothing but a few short minutes! Iwould give all my fortune to be able to write the _Hora Fugit_ of thepoet, and offer for the first time to man these two words as an axiom ofimmutable truth. 

There is nothing absolutely true in all the writings of the sages. Figures even, in their inexorable and systematic order, have theirerrors just as often as do words and apothems. An hour of pain and anhour of pleasure have no resemblance to each other save on the dial. _My_ hours are weary years. 

You understand then, my dear Edgar, that I write you these long letters, not to please you, but to relieve my own mind. In writing to you Idivert my attention from painful contemplation, and expatriate my ideas. A pen is the only instrument capable of killing time when time wishes tokill us. A pen is the faithless auxiliary of thought; unknown to us itsometimes penetrates the secret recesses of our hearts, where weflattered ourselves the horizon of our sorrows was hid from the world. 

Thus, if you discover in my letter any symptoms of mournful gayety, youmay know they are purely pen-fancies. I have no connection with themexcept that my fingers guide the pen. 

Sometimes I determine to abandon Paris and bury myself in some ruralretreat, where lonely meditation may fill my sorrowing heart with thebalm of oblivion; but in charity to myself I wish to avoid the absurdityof this self-deception. Nothing is more hurtful than trying a uselessremedy, for it destroys your confidence in all other remedies, and fillsyour soul with despair. Then, again, Paris is peculiarly fitted forcuring these nameless maladies--'tis the modern Thebais, desertedbecause 'tis crowded--silent because 'tis noisy; there, every man canpitch his tent and nurse his favorite sorrows without being disturbed byintruders. Solitude is the worst of companions when you wish to drownthe past in Lethe's soothing stream. However, 'tis useless for me toreason in this apparently absurd way in order to compel myself to remainin the heart of this great city, for I cannot and must not quit Paris atpresent; 'tis the central point of my operations; here I can act withthe greatest efficacy in the combinations of my searches--to leave Parisis to break the threads of my labyrinth. Besides, my duties as a man ofthe world impose cruel tortures upon me; if fate continues to workagainst me and I am compelled to retire from the world, the consolationof having escaped these social tortures will be mine; so you see, afterall, there is a silver lining to my dark cloud. When we cannot attaingood we can mitigate the evil. 

Last Thursday Countess L. Opened the season with an unusual event--abetrothment ball. Her select friends were invited to a sort of rehearsalof the wedding party; her beautiful cousin is to be married to our youngfriend Didier, whom we named Scipio Africanus. Marshal Bugeaud has givenhim a six-months' leave, and healed his wounded shoulder with acommander's epaulette. 

Now, I know you will agree with me that my presence was necessary atthis ball. I nerved myself for this new agony, and arrived there in themiddle of a quadrille. Never did a comedian, stepping on the stage, study his manner and assume a gay look with more care than I did as Ientered the room. I glided through the figures of the dance, and reachedthe further end of the ball-room which was filled with gossipingdowagers. Now I began to play my rôle of a happy man. 

Everybody knows I am weak enough to enjoy a ball with all the passionof a young girl, therefore I willingly joined the dancers. I selected asinfully ugly woman, so as to direct my devotions to the antipodes ofbeauty--the more unlike Irene the better for me. My partner possessedthat charming wit that generally accompanies ideal ugliness in a woman. We talked, laughed, danced with foolish gayety--each note of the musicwas accompanied by a witticism--we exchanged places and sallies at thesame time--we invented a new style of conversation, very preferable tothe dawdling gossip of a drawing-room. There is an exhilarationattending a conversation carried on with your feet flying andaccompanied by delightful music; every eye gazed at us; every ear, inthe whirl of the dance, almost touched our lips and caught what we said. Our gayety seemed contagious, and the whole room smiled approval. Mypartner was radiant with joy; the fast moving of her feet, theexcitement of her mind, the exaltation of triumph, the halo of wit hadtransfigured this woman; she positively appeared handsome!

For one instant I forgot my despair in the happy thought that I had justdone the noblest deed of my life; I had danced with a wall-flower, whoseonly crime was her ugliness, and had changed her misery into bliss byrendering her all the intoxicating ovations due only to beauty. 

But alas! there was a fatal reaction awaiting me. Glancing across theroom I intercepted the tender looks of two lovers, looks of mutual lovethat brought me back to my own misery, and made my heart bleed afresh atthe thought that love like this might have been mine! What is moretouchingly beautiful than the sight of a betrothed couple who exist in alittle world of their own, and, ignoring the indifferent crowd aroundthem, gaze at each other with such a wealth of love and trust in thefuture! I brought this image of a promised but lost happiness home withme. Oh! if I could blame Irene I would console myself by flying in a fitof legitimate anger! but this resource fails me--I can blame no one butmyself. Irene knows not how dear she is to me, I only half told her ofmy love, --I flattered myself that I had a long future in which to provemy devotion by deeds instead of words. Had she known how deeply I lovedher, she never could have deserted me. 

Your unhappy friend, ROGER DE MONBERT. 

VI. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, St. Dominique Street (Paris). 

Richeport, May 26th 18--. 

Dear Roger:--You have understood me. I did not wish to annoy you withhackneyed condolences or sing with you an elegiac duet; but I have notthe less sympathized with your sorrows; I have even evolved a system outof them. Were I forsaken, I should deplore the blindness of theunfortunate creature who could renounce the happiness of possessing me, and congratulate myself upon getting rid of a heart unworthy of me. Besides, I have always felt grateful to those benevolent beauties whotake upon themselves the disagreeable task of breaking off anengagement. At first, there is a slight feeling of wounded self-love, but as I have for some time concluded that the world contains aninfinity of beings endowed with charms superior to mine, it only lasts amoment, and if the scratch bleed a little, I consider myself indemnifiedby a tirade against woman's bad taste. Since you do not possess thisphilosophy, Mlle. De Chateaudun must be found, at any cost; you know myprinciples: I have a profound respect for any genuine passion. We willnot discuss the merits or the faults of Irene; you desire her, thatsuffices; you shall have her, or I will lose the little Malay I learntin Java when I went to see those dancing-girls, whose preference hassuch a disastrous effect upon Europeans. Your secret police is about tobe increased by a new spy; I espouse your anger, and place myselfentirely at the service of your wrath. I know some of the relatives ofMlle. De Chateaudun, who has connections in the neighboring departments, and in your behalf I have beaten about the châteaux for many milesaround. I have not yet found what I am searching for; but I havediscovered in the dullest houses a number of pretty faces who would asknothing better, dear Roger, than to console you, that is if you are not, like Rachel, refusing to be comforted; for if there be no lack of womenalways ready to decoy a successful lover, some can, also, be founddisposed to undertake the cure of a profound despair; these are theservices which the best friends cheerfully render. I will only permitmyself to ask you one question. Are you sure, before abandoning yourselfto the violence of an invisible grief, that Mlle. De Chateaudun has everexisted? If she exists, she cannot have evaporated! The diamond aloneascends entire to heaven and disappears, leaving no trace behind. Onecannot abstract himself, in this way, like a quintessence from acivilized centre; in 18--the suppression of any human being seems to meimpossible. Mademoiselle Irene has been too well brought up to throwherself into the water like a grisette; if she had done so, the zephyrswould have borne ashore her cloak or her umbrella; a woman's bonnet, when it comes from Beaudrand, always floats. Perhaps she wishes tosubject you to some romantic ordeal to see if you are capable of dyingof grief for her; do not gratify her so far. Double your serenity andcoolness, and, if need be, paint like a dowager; it is necessary tosustain before these affected dames the dignity of the uglier sex ofwhich we have the honor of forming a part. I approve the position youhave taken. The Pale Faces should bear moral torture with the sameimpassiveness with which the Red Skins endure physical torture. 

Roaming about in your interests, I had the beginning of an adventurewhich I must recount to you. It does not relate to a duchess, I warnyou; I leave those sort of freaks to republicans. In love-making, Ivalue beauty solely, it is the only aristocracy I look for; pretty womenare baronesses, charming ones countesses; beauties become marchionesses, and I recognise a queen by her hands and not by her sceptre, by her browand not by her crown. Such is my habit. Beyond this I am withoutprejudice; I do not disdain princesses provided they are as handsome assimple peasants. 

I had a presentiment that Alfred intended paying me a visit, and withthat wonderful acuteness which characterizes me, I said to myself: If hecomes here, hospitality will force me to endure the agony of hispresence as long as he pleases to impose it upon me, a torture forgottenin Dante's Hell; if I go to see him the situation is reversed. I canleave under the first indispensable pretext, that will not fail to offeritself, three days after my arrival, and I thus deprive him of allmotive for invading my wigwam at Richeport. Whereupon I went to Nantes, where his relatives reside, with whom he is passing the summer. 

At the expiration of four hours I suddenly remembered that most urgentbusiness recalled me to my mother; but what was my anguish, when I sawmy execrable friend accompany me to the railroad station, in a travelingsuit, a cap on his head, a valise under his arm! Happily, he was goingto Havre by way of Rouen, and I was relieved from all fear of invasion. 

At this juncture, my dear friend, endeavor to tear yourself away, for amoment, from the contemplation of your grief, and take some interest inmy story. To so distinguished a person as yourself it has at least theadvantage of beginning in an entirely homely and prosaic manner. Ishould never have committed the error of writing you anythingextraordinary; you are surfeited with the incredible; the supernaturalis a twice-told tale; between you and the marvellous secret affinitiesexist; miracles hunt you up; you find yourself in conjunction withphenomena; what never happens has happened to you; and in the world thatyou, in every sense, have wandered o'er, no novelty offers itself butthe common-place. 

The first time you ever attempted to do anything like other people--tomarry--you failed. Your only talent is for the impossible; therefore, Ihope that my recital, a little after the style of Paul de Kock'sromances, an author admired by great ladies and kitchen girls, will giveyou infinite surprise and possess all the attraction and freshness ofthe unknown. 

There were already two persons in the compartment into which theconductor hurried us; two women, one old and the other young. 

To prevent Alfred from playing the agreeable, I took possession of thecorner fronting the youngest, leaving to my tiresome friend the freezingperspective of the older woman. 

You know I have no fancy for sustaining what is called the honor ofFrench gallantry--a gallantry which consists in wearying with ill-timedattention, with remarks upon the rain and the fine weather, interlardedwith a thousand and one stupid rhymes, the women forced by circumstancesto travel alone. 

I settled myself in my corner after making a slight bow on perceivingthe presence of women in the car, one of whom evidently merited theattention of every young commercial traveler and troubadour. I setmyself to examine my vis-a-vis, dividing my attention betweenpicturesque studies and studies physiognomical. 

The result of my picturesque observations was that I never saw so manypoppies before. Probably they were the red sparks from the locomotivetaking root and blooming along the road. 

My physiognomical studies were more extended, and, without flatteringmyself, I believe Lavater himself would have approved them. 

The cowl does not make the friar, but dress makes the woman. I shallbegin by giving you an extremely detailed description of the toilet ofmy incognita. This is an accustomed method, which proves that it is agood one, since everybody makes use of it. My fair unknown wore neithera bark blanket fastened about her waist, nor rings in her nose, norbracelets on her ankles, nor rings on her toes, which must appearextraordinary to you. 

She wore, perhaps, the only costume that your collection lacks, that ofa Parisian grisette. You, who know by heart the name of every article ofa Hottentot's attire, who are strong upon Esquimaux fashions and knowjust how many rows of pins a Patagonian of the haut ton wears in herlower lip, have never thought of sketching such an one. 

A well-approved description of a grisette should commence with her foot. The grisette is the Andalouse of Paris; she possesses the talent ofbeing able to pass through the mire of Lutetia on tiptoe, like a dancerwho studies her steps, without soiling her white stockings with a singlespeck of mud. The manolas of Madrid, the cigaretas of Seville in theirsatin slippers are not better shod; mine--pardon the anticipation ofthis possessive pronoun--put forward from under the seat anirreproachable boot and aristocratically turned ankle. If she would giveme that graceful buskin to place in my museum beside the shoe ofCarlotta Grisi, the Princess Houn-Gin's boot and Gracia of Grenada'sslipper, I would fill it with gold or sugar-plums, as she pleased. 

As to her dress, I acknowledge, without any feeling of mortification, that it was of mousseline; but the secret of its making was preserved bythe modiste. It was tight and easy at the same time, a perfect fitattained by Palmyre in her moments of inspiration; a black silkmantilla, a little straw bonnet trimmed plainly with ribbon, and a greengauze veil, half thrown back, completed the adornment, or rather absenceof ornament, of this graceful creature. 

Heavens! I had like to have forgotten the gloves! Gloves are the weakpoint of a grisette's costume. To be fresh, they must be renewed often, but they cost the price of two days' work. Hers were, O horror!imitation Swedish, which truth compels me to value at nineteenha'-pennies, or ninety-five centimes, to conform to the new monetaryphraseology. 

A worsted work-bag, half filled, was placed beside her. What could ithold? Some circulating library novel? Do not be uneasy, the bag onlycontained a roll and a paper of bonbons from Boissier, dainties whichplay an important part in my story. 

Now I must draw you an exact sketch of this pretty Parisian's face--forsuch she was. A Parisian alone could wear, with such grace, afifteen-franc bonnet. 

I abhor bonnets; nevertheless, on some occasions, I am forced toacknowledge that they produce quite a pleasing effect. They represent akind of queer flower, whose core is formed of a woman's head; afull-blown rose, which, in the place of stamens and pistils, bearsglances and smiles. 

The half-raised veil of my fair unknown only exposed to view a chin ofperfect mould, a little strawberry mouth and half of her nose, perhapsthree-quarters. What pretty, delicately turned nostrils, pink as theshells of the South Sea! The upper part of the face was bathed in atransparent, silvery shadow, under which the quiver of the eyelids mightbe imagined and the liquid fire of her glance. As to her cheeks--youmust await the succession of events if you desire more ampledescription; for the ears of her bonnet, drawn down by the strings, concealed their contour; what could be seen of them was of a delicaterose color. Her eyes and hair will form a special paragraph. 

Now that you are sufficiently enlightened upon the subject of theperspective which your friend enjoyed on the cars between Mantes andPont-de-l'Arche, I will pass to another exercise, highly recommended inrhetorical treatises, and describe, by way of a set-off and contrast, the female monster that served as shadow to this ideal grisette. 

This frightful companion appeared very suspicious. Was she the duenna, the mother or an old relative? At any rate she was very ugly, notbecause her head was like a stone mask with spiral eyebrows, and lipsslashed like the fossa of a heraldic dolphin, but vulgarity had stampedthe mask, making its features common, coarse and dull. The habit ofservile compliance had deprived them of all true expression; shesquinted, her smile was vaguely stupid, and she wore an air of spuriousgood-nature, indicative of country birth; a dark merino dress, cloak ofsombre hue, a bonnet under which stood out the many ruffles of a rumpledcap, completed the attire of the creature. 

The grisette is a gay, chattering bird, which at fifteen escapes fromthe nest never to return; it is not her custom to drag about a motherafter her, this is the special mania of actresses who resort to allsorts of tricks ignored by the proud and independent grisette. Thegrisette seems instinctively to know that the presence of an old womanabout a young one exerts an unhealthy influence. It suggests sorcery andthe witches' vigil; snails seek roses only to spread their slime overthem, and old age only approaches youth from a discreditable motive. 

This woman was not the mother of my incognita; so sweet a flower couldnot grow upon such a rugged bush. I heard the antique say in thehumblest tone, "Mlle, if you wish, I will put down the blind; thecinders might hurt you. "

Doubtless she was some relative; for a grisette never has a companion, and duennas pertain exclusively to Spanish infantas. 

Was my grisette simply an adventuress, graced by a hired mother to giveher an air of respectability? No, there was the seal of simple honestystamped upon her whole person; a care in the details of her simpletoilet, which separated her from that venturous class. A wanderingprincess would not show such exactitude in her dress; she would betrayherself by a ragged shawl worn over a new dress, by silk stockings withboots down at heel, by something ripped and out of order. Besides, theold woman did not take snuff nor smell of brandy. 

I made these observations in less time than it takes to write them, through Alfred's inexhaustible chatter, who imagines, like many people, that you are vexed if the conversation flags an instant. Besides, between you and me, I think he wished to impress these women with anidea of his importance, for he talked to me of the whole world. I do notknow how it happened, but this whirlwind of words seemed to interest myincognita, who had all along remained quietly ensconced in her corner. The few words uttered by her were not at all remarkable; an observationupon a mass of great black clouds piled up in a corner of the horizonthat threatened a shower; but I was charmed with the fresh and silverytone of her voice. The music of the words--it is going torain--penetrated my soul like an air from Bellini, and I felt somethingstir in my heart, which, well cultivated, might turn into love. 

The locomotive soon devoured the distance between Mantos and Pont del'Arche. An abominable scraping of iron and twisting of brakes washeard, and the train stopped. I was terribly alarmed lest the grisetteand her companion should continue their route, but they got out at thestation. O Roger wasn't I a happy dog? While they were employed inhunting up some parcel, the vehicle which runs between the station andPont de l'Arche left, weighed down with trunks and travellers; so thatthe two women and myself were compelled, in spite of the weather, towalk to Pont de l'Arche. Large drops began to sprinkle the dust. One ofthose big black clouds which I mentioned opened, and long streams ofrain fell from its gloomy folds like arrows from an overturned quiver. 

A moss-covered shed, used to put away farming implements, oddcart-wheels, performed for us the same service as the classic grottowhich sheltered Eneas and Dido under similar circumstances. The wildbranches of the hawthorn and sweet-briar added to the rusticity of ourasylum. 

My unknown, although visibly annoyed by this delay, resigned herself toher fate, and watched the rain falling in torrents. O Robinson Crusoe, how I envied you, at that moment, your famous goat-skin umbrella! howgracefully would I have offered its shelter to this beauty as far asPont de l'Arche, for she was going to Pont de l'Arche, right into thelion's mouth. Time passed. The vehicle would not return until the nexttrain was due, that is in five or six hours; I had not told them to comefor me; our situation was most melancholy. 

My infanta opened daintily her little bag, took from it a roll and somebonbons, which she began to eat in the most graceful manner imaginable, but having breakfasted before leaving Mantes, I was dying of hunger; Isuppose I must have looked covetously at her provisions, for she beganto laugh and offered me half of her pittance, which I accepted. In thedivision, I don't know how it happened, but my hand touched hers--shedrew it quickly away, and bestowed upon me a look of such royal disdainthat I said to myself--This young girl is destined for the dramaticprofession, --she plays the Marguerites and the Clytemnestras in theprovinces until she possesses _embonpoint_ enough to appear at PorteSaint Martin or the Odeon. This vampire is her dresser--everything wasclear. 

I promised you a paragraph upon her eyes and hair; her eyes were achangeable gray, sometimes blue, sometimes green, according to theexpression and the light; her chestnut locks were separated in twoglossy braids, half satin, half velvet--many a great lady would havepaid high for such hair. 

The shower over, a wild resolution was unanimously taken to set out onfoot for Pont de l'Arche, notwithstanding the mud and the puddles. 

Having entered into the good graces of the infanta by speech full ofwisdom and gesture carefully guarded, we set out together, the old womanfollowing a few steps behind, and the marvellous little boot arrived atits destination without being soiled the least in the world--grisettesare perfect partridges--the house of Madame Taverneau, thepost-mistress, where my incognita stopped. 

You are a prince of very little penetration, dear Roger, if you have notdivined that you will receive a letter from me every day, and even two, if I have to send empty envelopes or recopy the Complete Letter Writer. To whom will I not write? No minister of state will ever have soextended a correspondence. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

VII. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

PONT DE L'ARCHE, May 29th 18--. 

Valentine, this time I rebel, and question your infallibility. 

It is useless for you to say to me, "You do not love him. " I tell you Ido love him, and intend to marry him. Nevertheless you excite myadmiration in pronouncing against me this very well-turned sentence. "Genuine and fervid love is not so ingenuous. When you love deeply, yourespect the object of your devotion and are fearful of giving offence bydaring to test him. 

"When you love sincerely you are not so venturesome. It is so necessaryfor you to trust him, that you treasure up your faith and risk it not insuspicious trifling. 

"Real love is timid, it would rather err than suspect, it buries doubtsinstead of nursing them, and very wisely, for love cannot survivefaith. "

This is a magnificent period, and you should send it to Balzac; hedelights in filling his novels with such very woman-like phrases. 

I admit that your ideas are just and true when applied to love alone;but if this love is to end in marriage, the "test" is no longer"suspicious trifling, " and one has the right to try the constancy of acharacter without offending the dignity of love. 

Marriage, and especially a marriage of inclination, is so serious amatter, that we cannot exercise too much prudence and reasonable delaybefore taking the final step. 

You say, "Love is timid;" well, so is Hymen. One dares not lightly utterthe irrevocable promise, "Thine for life!" these words make us hesitate. 

When we wish to be honorable and faithfully keep our oaths, we pause alittle before we utter them. 

Now I can hear you exclaim, "You are not in love; if you were, insteadof being frightened by these words, they would reassure you; you wouldbe quick to say 'Thine for life, ' and you could never imagine that thereexisted any other man you could love. "

I am aware that this gives you weapons to be used against me; I know Iam foolish! but--well, I feel that there is some one somewhere that Icould love more deeply!

This silly idea sometimes makes me pause and question, but it growsfainter daily, and I now confess that it is folly, childish to cherishsuch a fancy. In spite of your opinion, I persist in believing that I amin love with Roger. And when you know him, you will understand hownatural it is for me to love him. 

I would at this very moment be talking to him in Paris but for you!Don't be astonished, for your advice prevented my returning to Parisyesterday. 

Alas! I asked you for aid, and you add to my anxiety. 

I left the hotel de Langeac with a joyful heart. The test will befavorable, thought I, --and when I have seen Roger in the depths ofdespair for a few days, seeking me everywhere, impatiently expecting me, blaming me a little and regretting me deeply, I will suddenly appearbefore him, happy and smiling! I will say, "Roger, you love me; I leftyou to think of you from afar, to question my own heart--to try thestrength of your devotion; I now return without fear and with renewedconfidence in myself and in you; never again shall we be separated!"

I intend to frankly confess everything to him; but you say theconfession will be fatal to me. "If you intend to marry M. De Moubert, for Heaven's sake keep him in ignorance of the motive of your departure;invent an excuse--be called off to perform a duty--to nurse a sickfriend; choose any story you please, rather than let him suspect you ranaway to experiment upon the degree of his love. "

You add, "he loves you devotedly and never will he forgive you forinflicting on him these unnecessary sufferings; a proud and deservinglove never pardons suspicious and undeserved trials of its faith. "

Now what can I do? Invent a falsehood? All falsehoods are stupid! Then Iwould have to write it, for I could not undertake to lie to his face. With strangers and people indifferent to me, I might manage it; but tolook into the face of the man who loves me, who gazes so honestly intomy eyes when I speak to him, who understands every expression of mycountenance, who observes and admires the blush that flushes my cheek, who is familiar with every modulation of my voice, as a musician withthe tones of his instrument--

Why, it is a moral impossibility to attempt such a thing! A forcedsmile, a false tone, would put him on his guard at once; he becomessuspicious. 

At his first question my fine castle of lies vanishes into air, and Ihave to fall back on the unvarnished truth. 

To gratify you, Valentine, I will lie, but lie at a distance. I feelthat it is necessary to put many stations and provinces between mynative candor and the people I am to deceive. 

Why do you scold me so much? You must see that I have not actedthoughtlessly; my conduct is strange, eccentric and mysterious to no onebut Roger. 

To every one else it is perfectly proper. I am supposed to be in theneighborhood of Fontainebleau, with the Duchess de Langeac, at herdaughter's house; and as the poor girl is very sick and receives nocompany, I can disappear for a short time without my absence callingforth remark, or raising an excitement in the country. 

I have told my cousin a part of the truth--she understands my scruplesand doubts. She thinks it very natural that I should wish to considerthe matter over before engaging myself for life; she knows that I amstaying with an old friend, and as I have promised to return home in twoweeks, she is not a bit uneasy about me. 

"My child, " she said when we parted, "if you decide to marry, I will gowith you to Paris; if not, you shall go with us to enjoy the waters ofAix. " I have discovered that Aix is a good place to learn news of ourfriends in Isère. You also reproach me for not having told Roger all mytroubles; for having hidden from him what you flatteringly call "themost beautiful pages of my life. "

O, Valentine! in this matter I am wiser than you, in spite of yourmatronly experience and acknowledged wisdom. Doubtless you understandbetter than I do, the serious affairs of life, but about thefrivolities, I think I know best, and I tell you that courage in a womanis not an attraction in the eyes of these latter-day beaux. 

Their weak minds, with an affected nicety, prefer a sighing, supplicating coquette, decked in pretty ribbons, surrounded by luxuriesthat are the price of her dignity; one who pours her sorrows into thelover's ear--yes! I say they prefer such a one to a noble woman whobravely faces misery with proud resignation, who refuses the favors ofthose she despises, and calm, strong, self-reliant, waters with hertears her hard-earned bread. 

Believe me, men are more inclined to love women they can pity than womenthey must admire and respect; feminine courage in adversity is to them adisagreeable picture in an ugly frame; that is to say, a poorly dressedwoman in a poorly furnished room. So you now see why, not wishing todisgust my future husband, I was careful that he should not see thisugly picture. 

Ah! you speak to me of my dear ideal, and you say you love him? Ah! tohim alone could I fearlessly read these beautiful pages of my life. Butlet us banish him from our minds; I would forget him!

Once I was very near betraying myself; my cousin and I called on aRussian lady residing in furnished apartments on Rivoli street. 

M. De Monbert was there--as I took a seat near the fire, the Countess R. Handed me a screen--I at once recognised a painting of my own. Itrepresented Paul and Virginia gardening with Domingo. 

How horrible did all three look! Time and dust had curiously altered thefaces of my characters; by an inexplicable phenomenon Virginia andDomingo had changed complexions; Virginia was a negress, and Domingo wasenfranchised, bleached, he had cast aside the tint of slavery and was apure Caucasian. The absurdity of the picture made me laugh, and M. DeMonbert inquired the cause of my merriment. I showed him the screen, andhe said "How very horrible!" and I was about to add "I painted it, " whensome one interrupted us, and so prevented the betrayal of my secret. 

You will not have to scold me any more; I am going to take your adviceand leave Pont de l'Arche to-day. Oh I how I wish I were in Paris thisminute! I am dreadfully tired of this little place, it is so wearying toplay poverty. 

When I was really poor, the modest life I had to lead, the cruelprivations I had to suffer, seemed to me to be noble and dignified. 

Misery has its grandeur, and every sorrow has its poetry; but when thehumility of life is voluntary and privations mere caprices, misery losesall its prestige, and the romantic sufferings we needlessly impose onourselves, are intolerable, because there is no courage or merit inenduring them. 

This sentiment I feel must be natural, for my old companion inmisfortune, my good and faithful Blanchard, holds the same views that Ido. You know how devoted she was to me during my long weary days oftrouble!

She faithfully served me three years with no reward other than theapproval of her own conscience. She, who was so proud of keeping mymother's house, resembling a stewardess of the olden time; whenmisfortune came, converted herself for my sake into maid of all work!Inspired by love for me, she patiently endured the hardships anddreariness of our sad situation; not a complaint, not a murmur, not areproach. To see her so quietly resigned, you would have supposed thatshe had been both chamber-maid and cook all her life, that is if younever tasted her dishes! I shall always remember her first dinner. O, the Spartan broth of that day! She must have gotten the receipt from"The Good Lacedemonian Cook Book. "

I confidently swallowed all she put before me. Strange and mysteriousragout! I dared not ask what was in it, but I vainly sought for therelics of any animal I had ever seen; what did she make it of? It is asecret that I fear I shall die without discovering. 

Well, this woman, so devoted, so resigned in the days of adversity; thisfeminine Caleb, whose generous care assuaged my misery; who, when Isuffered, deemed it her duty to suffer with me; when I worked day andnight, considered it an honor to labor day and night with me--now thatshe knows we are restored to our fortune, cannot endure the leastprivation. 

All day long she complains. Every order is received with imprecatorymutterings, such as "What an idiotic idea! What folly! to be as rich asCroesus and find amusement in poverty! To come and live in a little holewith common people and refuse to visit duchesses in their castles!People must not be surprised if I don't obey orders that I don'tunderstand. "

She is stubborn and refractory. She will drive me to despair, sodetermined does she seem to thwart all my plans. I tell her to call meMadame; she persists in calling me Mademoiselle. I told her to bringsimple dresses and country shoes; she has brought nothing butembroidered muslins, cobweb handkerchiefs and gray silk boots. Ientreated her to put on a simple dress, when she came with me. This madeher desperate, and through vengeance and maliciously exaggerated zealshe bundled herself up like an old witch. I tried to make her comprehendthat her frightfulness far exceeded my wildest wishes; she thereupondisarmed me with this sublime reply:

"I had nothing but new hats and new shawls, and so had to _borrow_ theseclothes to obey Mademoiselle's orders. "

Would you believe it? The proud old woman has destroyed or hidden allthe old clothes that were witnesses of our past misery. I am morehumble, and have kept everything. When I returned to my little garret, Iwas delighted to see again my modest furniture, my pretty pink chintzcurtains, my thin blue carpet, my little ebony shelves, and then all theprecious objects I had saved from the wreck; my father's oldeasy-chair, my mother's work-table, and all of our family portraits, concealed, like proud intruders, in one corner of the room, wherehaughty marshals, worthy prelates, coquettish marquises, venerableabbesses, sprightly pages and gloomy cavaliers all jostled together, andmuch astonished to find themselves in such a wretched little room, andwhat is worse, shamefully disowned by their unworthy descendant. I lovemy garret, and remained there three days before coming here; and there Ileft my fine princess dresses and put on my modest travelling suit;there the elegant Irene once more became the interesting widow of theimaginary Albert Guérin. We started at nine in the morning. I had thegreatest difficulty in getting ready for the early train, so soon have Iforgotten my old habit of early rising. When I look back and recall howfor three years I arose at dawn, it looks like a wretched dream. Isuppose it is because I have become so lazy. 

It is distressing to think that only six months have passed since I wasraised from the depths of poverty, and here I am already spoiled by goodfortune!

Misfortune is a great master, but like all masters he only is obeyedwhen present; we work with him, but when his back is turned forget hisadmonitions. 

We reached the depot as the train was starting, obtaining comfortableseats. I met with a most interesting adventure, that is, interesting tome; how small the world is! I had for a companion an old friend ofRoger, but who fortunately did not know me; it was M. Edgar de Meilhan, the poet, whose talents I admire, and whose acquaintance I had longdesired; judging from his conversation he must be quite an originalcharacter. But he was accompanied by one of those explanatory gossipswho seem born to serve as cicerones to the entire world, and renderuseless all penetrating perspicacity. 

These sort of bores are amusing to meet on a journey; rather wellinformed, they quote their favorite authors very neatly in order todisplay the extent of their information; they also have a happy way ofimposing on the ignorant people, who sit around with wide-stretchedmouths, listening to the string of celebrated names so familiarlyrepeated as to indicate a personal intimacy with each and all of them;in a word, it is a way of making the most of your acquaintance, as yourwitty friend M. L. Would say. Now I must give you a portrait of thisgentleman; it shall be briefly done. 

He was an angular man, with a square forehead, a square nose, a squaremouth, a square chin, a square smile, a square hand, square shoulders, square gayety, square jokes; that is to say, he is coarse, heavy andrugged. A coarse mind cultivated often appears smooth and moves easilyin conversation, but a square mind is always awkward and threatening. Well, this square man evidently "made the most of his acquaintances" formy benefit, for poor little me, an humble violet met by chance on theroad! He spoke of M. Guizot having mentioned this to him; of M. Thiers, who dined with him lately, having said that to him; of Prince Max deBeauvau, whom he bet with at the last Versailles races; of the beautifulMadame de Magnoncourt, with whom he danced at the English ambassador'sball; of twenty other distinguished personages with whom he wasintimate, and finally he mentioned Prince Roger de Monbert, theeccentric tiger-hunter, who for the last two months had been the lion ofParis. At the name of Roger I became all attention; the square mancontinued:

"But you, my dear Edgar, were brought up with him, were you not?"

"Yes, " said the poet. 

"Have you seen him since his return?"

"Not yet, but I hear from him constantly; I had a letter yesterday. "

"They say he is engaged to the beautiful heiress, Irene de Chateaudun, and will be married very soon. "

"'Tis an idle rumor, " said M. De Meilhan, in a dry tone that forced hisdreadful friend to select another topic of conversation. 

Oh, how curious I was to find out what Roger had written to M. DeMeilhan! Roger had a confidant! He had told him about me! What could hehave said? Oh, this dreadful letter! What would I not give to see it! Mysole thought is, how can I obtain it; unconsciously I gazed at M. DeMeilhan, with an uneasy perplexity that must have astonished him andgiven him a queer idea of my character. 

I was unable to conceal my joy, when I heard him say he lived atRicheport, and that he intended stopping at Pont de l'Arche, which isbut a short distance from his estate; my satisfaction must have appearedvery strange. 

A dreadful storm detained us two hours in the neighborhood of the depot. We remained in company under the shed, and watched the falling rain. Mysituation was embarrassing; I wished to be agreeable and polite to M. DeMeilhan that I might encourage him to call at Madama Taverneau's, Pontde l'Arche, and then again I did not wish to be so very gracious andattentive as to inspire him with too much assurance. It was a difficultgame to play. I must boldly risk making a bad impression, and at thesame time keep him at a respectful distance. Well, I succeeded insolving the problem within the pale of legitimate curiosity, offering toshare with my companion in misfortune a box of bon-bons, intended forMadame Taverneau. 

But what attentions he showered on me before meriting this greatsacrifice! What ingenious umbrellas he improvised for me under thisinhospitable shed, that grudgingly lent us a perfidious and capriciousshelter! What charming seats, skilfully made of sticks and logs driveninto the wet ground!

When the storm was over M. De Meilhan offered to escort us to Pont del'Arche; I accepted, much to the astonishment of the severe Blanchard, who cannot understand the sudden change in my conduct, and begins tosuspect me of being in search of adventures. 

When we reached our destination, and Madam Taverneau heard that M. DeMeilhan had been my escort, she was in such a state of excitement thatshe could talk of nothing else. M. De Meilhan is highly thought ofhere, where his family have resided many years; his mother is venerated, and he himself beloved by all that know him. He has a moderate fortune;with it he quietly dispenses charity and daily confers benefits with anunknown hand. He seems to be very agreeable and witty. I have never metso brilliant a man, except M. De Monbert. How charming it would be tohear them talk together!

But that letter! What would I not give for that letter! If I could onlyread the first four lines! I would find out what I want to know. Thesefirst lines would tell me if Roger is really sad; if he is to be pitied, and if it is time for me to console him. I rely a little upon theindiscretion of M. De Meilhan to enlighten me. Poets are like doctors;all artists are kindred spirits; they cannot refrain from telling aromantic love affair any more than a physician can from citing his lastremarkable case; the former never name their friends, the latter neverbetray their patients. But when we know beforehand, as I do, the name ofthe hero or patient, we soon complete the semi-indiscretion. 

So I mercilessly slander all heiresses and capricious women of fashionthat I may incite Roger's confidant to relate me my own history. Iforgot to mention that since my arrival here M. De Meilhan has beenevery day to call on Madame Taverneau. She evidently imagines herselfthe object of his visits. I am of a different opinion. Indeed, I fear Ihave made a conquest of this dark-eyed young poet, which is not at allflattering to me. This sudden adoration shows that he has not a veryelevated opinion of me. How he will laugh when he recognises thisadventurous widow in the proud wife of his friend!

You reproach me bitterly for having sacrificed you to Madame Taverneau. Cruel Prefect that you are, go and accuse the government and yourconsul-general of this unjust preference. 

Can I reach Grenoble in three hours, as I do Rouen? Can I return fromGrenoble to Paris in three hours; fly when I wish, reappear when 'tisnecessary? In a word have you a railway? No! Well, then, trust to myexperience and believe that where locomotion is concerned there is anend to friendship, gratitude, sympathy and devotion. Nothing is to beconsidered but railways, roads, wagons that jolt you to death, but carryyou to your destination, and stages that upset and never arrive. 

We cannot visit the friends we love best, but those we can get away fromwith the greatest facility. 

Besides, for a heroine wishing to hide herself, the asylum you offer hasnothing mysterious, it is merely a Thebais of a prefecture; and there Iam afraid of compromising you. 

A Parisian in a provincial town is always standing on a volcano, oneunlucky word may cause destruction. 

How difficult it is to be a Prefect! You have commenced veryproperly--four children! All that is necessary to begin with. They aresuch convenient excuses. To be a good Prefect one must have fourchildren. They are inexhaustible pretexts for escaping social horrors;if you wish to decline a compromising invitation, your dear little girlhas got the whooping cough; when you wish to avoid dining a friend _intransitu_, your eldest son has a dreadful fever; you desire to escape abanquet unadorned by the presence of the big-wigs--brilliant idea! allfour children have the measles. 

Now confess you did well to have the four lovely children! Without themyou would be conquered in spite of your wisdom; it requires so muchskill for a Parisian to live officially in a province!

There all the women are clever; the most insignificant citizen's wifecan outwit an old diplomat. What science they display under the mosttrying and peculiar circumstances! What profound combination in theirplans of vengeance! What prudence in their malice! What patience intheir cruelty! It is dreadful! I will visit you when you reside in thecountry, but while you reign over a prefecture, I have for you therespectful horror that a democratic mind has for all authorities. 

Who is this poor convalescent whose wound caused you so much anxiety?You don't tell me his name! I understand you, Madame! Even to an oldfriend you must show your administrative discretion!

Is this wounded hero young? I suppose he is, as you do not say he isold. He is "about to leave, and return to his home;" "his home" israther vague, as you don't tell me his name! Now, I am different fromyou; I name and fully describe every one I meet, you respond withenigmas. 

I well know that your destiny is fulfilled, and that mine has all theattractiveness of a new romance. Nevertheless, you must be morecommunicative if you expect to be continued in office as my confidant. 

Embrace for me your dear little ones, whom I insist upon regarding asyour best counsellors at the prefecture, and tell my goddaughter, Irene, to kiss you for me. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

VIII. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Saint Dominique street, Paris. 

RICHEPORT, May 31st, 18--. 

Now that you are a sort of Amadis de Gaul, striking attitudes upon abarren rock, as a sign of your lovelorn condition, you have probablyforgotten, my dear Roger, my encounter upon the cars with an idealgrisette, who saved me from the horrors of starvation by generouslydividing with me a bag of sugar-plums. But for this unlooked-for aid, Ishould have been reduced, like a famous handful of shipwrecked mariners, to feed upon my watch-chain and vest-buttons. To a man so absorbed inhis grief, as you are, the news of the death from starvation of a friendupon the desert island of a railway station, would make very littleimpression; but I not being in love with any Irene de Chateaudun, havepreserved a pleasant recollection of this touching scene, translatedfrom the Æneid in modern and familiar prose. 

I wrote immediately, --for my beauty, of an infinitely less exalted rankthan yours, lodges with the post-mistress, --several fabulous letters toproblematic people, in countries which do not exist, and are onlydesignated upon the map by a dash. 

Madame Taverneau has conceived a profound respect for a young man whohas correspondents in unknown lands, barely sighted in 1821 at theAntarctic pole, and in 1819 at the Arctic pole, so she invited me to alittle soirée musicale et dansante, of which I was to be the brightparticular star. An invitation to an exclusive ball, given at aninaccessible house, never gave a woman with a doubtful past or anuncertain position, half the pleasure that I felt from the entangledsentences of Madame Taverneau in which she did not dare to hope, butwould be happy if--. 

Apart from the happiness of seeing Madame Louise Guérin (my charmer'sname), I looked forward to an entirely new recreation, that of studyingthe manners of the middle class in their intimate relations with eachother. I have lived with the aristocracy and with the canaille; in thehighest and lowest conditions of life are found entire absence ofpretension; in the highest, because their position is assured; in thelowest, because it is simply impossible to alter it. None but poets arereally unhappy because they cannot climb to the stars. A half-wayposition is the most false. 

I thought I would go early to have some talk with Louise, but the circlewas already completed when I arrived; everybody had come first. 

The guests were assembled in a large, gloomy room, gloriously called adrawing-room, where the servant never enters without first taking offher shoes at the door, like a Turk in a mosque, and which is only openedon the most solemn occasions. As it is doubtful whether you have everset foot in a like establishment, I will give you, in imitation of themost profound of our novel-writers (which one? you will say; they areall profound now-a-days), a detailed description of Madame Taverneau'ssalon. 

Two windows, hung in red calico, held up by some black ornaments, acomplication of sticks, pegs and all sorts of implements on stampedcopper, gave light to this sanctuary, which commanded through them ananimated look-out--in the language of the commonalty--upon thescorching, noisy highway, bordered by sickly elms sprinkled with dust, from the constant passage of vehicles which shake the house to itscentre; wagons loaded with noisy iron, and droves of hogs, squeakingunder the drover's whip. 

The floor was painted red and polished painfully bright, reminding oneof a wine-merchant's sign freshly varnished; the walls were concealedunder frightful velvet paper which so religiously catches the fluff anddust. The mahogany furniture stood round the room, a reproach againstthe discovery of America, covered with sanguinary cloth stamped in blackwith subjects taken from Fontaine's fables. When I say subjects Ibasely flatter the sumptuous taste of Madame Taverneau; it was the samesubject indefinitely repeated--the Fox and the Stork. How luxurious itwas to sit upon a stork's beak! In front of each chair was spread apiece of carpet, to protect the splendor of the floor, so that theguests when seated bore a vague resemblance to the bottles and decantersset round the plated centrepiece of a banquet given to a deputy by hisgrateful constituents. 

An atrocious troubadour clock ornamented the mantel-piece representingthe templar Bois-Guilbert bearing off a gilded Rebecca upon a silverhorse. On either side of this frightful time-piece were placed twoplated lamps under globes. 

This magnificence filled with secret envy more than one housekeeper ofPont de l'Arche, and even the maid trembled as she dusted. We will notspeak of the spun-glass poodles, little sugar St. Johns, chocolateNapoleons, a cabinet filled with common china, occupying a conspicuousplace, engravings representing the Adieux to Fontainebleau, Souvenirsand Regrets, The Fisherman's Family, The Little Poachers, and otherhackneyed subjects. Can you imagine anything like it? For my part, Inever could understand this love for the common-place and the hideous. Iknow that every one does not dwell in Alhambras, Louvres, or Parthenons, but it is so easy to do without a clock to leave the walls bare, toexist without Manrin's lithographs or Jazet's aquatints!

The people filling the room, seemed to me, in point of vulgarity, thequeerest in the world; their manner of speaking was marvellous, imitating the florid style of the defunct Prudhomme, the pupil of Brardand St. Omer. Their heads spread out over their white cravats andimmense shirt collars recalled to mind certain specimens of the gourdtribe. Some even resemble animals, the lion, the horse, the ass; these, all things considered, had a vegetable rather than an animal look. Ofthe women I will say nothing, having resolved never to ridicule thatcharming sex. 

Among these human vegetables, Louise appeared like a rose in a cabbagepatch. She wore a simple white dress fastened at the waist by a blueribbon; her hair arranged in bandeaux encircled her pure brow and woundin massive coils about her head. A Quakeress could have found no faultwith this costume, which placed in grotesque and ridiculous contrast thehearselike trappings of the other women. It was impossible to be dressedin better taste. I was afraid lest my Infanta should seize thisopportunity to display some marvellous toilette purchased expressly forthe occasion. That plain muslin gown which never saw India, and wasprobably made by herself, touched and fascinated me. Dress has verylittle weight with me. I once admired a Granada gypsy whose sole costumeconsisted of blue slippers and a necklace of amber beads; but nothingannoys me more than a badly made dress of an unbecoming shade. 

The provincial dandies much preferring the rubicund gossips, with theirshort necks covered with gold chains, to Madame Taverneau's young andslender guest, I was free to talk with her under cover of LouisaPugett's ballads and sonatas executed by infant phenomena upon a crackedpiano hired from Rouen for the occasion. 

Louisa's wit was charming. How mistaken it is to educate instinct out ofwomen! To replace nature by a school-mistress! She committed none ofthose terrible mistakes which shock one; it was evident that she formedher sentences herself instead of repeating formulae committed to memory. She had either never read a novel or had forgotten it, and unless she isa wonderful actress she remains as the great fashioner, Nature, madeher--a perfect woman. We remained a greater part of the evening seatedtogether in a corner like beings of another race. Profiting by the greatinterest betrayed by the company in one of those _soi-disant_ innocentgames where a great deal of kissing is done, the fair girl, doubtlessfearing a rude salute on her delicate cheek, led me into her room, whichadjoins the parlor and opens into the garden by a glass door. 

On a table in the room, feebly lighted by a lamp which Louisa modestlyturned up, were scattered pell-mell, screens, boxes from Spa, alabasterpaper-weights and other details of the art of illuminating, whichprofession my beauty practises; and which explains her occasionalaristocratic airs, unbecoming an humble seamstress. A bouquet justcommenced showed talent; with some lessons from St. Jean or Diaz shewould easily make a good flower painter. I told her so. She received myencomiums as a matter of course, evincing none of that mock-modestywhich I particularly detest. 

She showed me a bizarre little chest that she was making, which atfirst-sight seemed to be carved out of coral; it was constructed out ofthe wax-seals cut from old letters pasted together. This new mosaic wasvery simple, and yet remarkably pretty. She asked me to give her, inorder to finish her box, all the striking seals I possessed, emblazonedin figures and devices. I gave her five or six letters that I had in mypocket, from which she dexterously cut the seals with her littlescissors. While she was thus engaged I strolled about the garden--aMachiavellian manoeuvre, for, in order to return me my letters, she mustcome in search of me. 

The gardens of Madame Taverneau are not the gardens of Armida; but it isnot in the power of the commonalty to spoil entirely the work of God'shands; trees, by the moonbeams of a summer-night, although only a fewsteps from red-cotton curtains and a sanhedrim of merry tradespeople, are still trees. In a corner of the garden stood a large acacia tree, infull bloom, waving its yellow hair in the soft night-breeze, andmingling its perfume with that of the flowers of the marsh iris, poisedlike azure butterflies upon their long green stems. 

The porch was flooded with silver light, and when Louise, having securedher seals, appeared upon the threshold, her pure and elegant form stoodout against the dark background of the room like an alabaster statuette. 

Her step, as she advanced towards me, was undulating and rhythmical likea Greek strophe. I took my letters, and we strolled along the pathtowards an arbor. 

So glad was I to get away from the templar Bois-Guilbert carrying offRebecca, and the plated lamps, that I developed an eloquence at oncepersuasive and surprising. Louise seemed much agitated; I could almostsee the beatings of her heart--the accents of her pure voice weretroubled--she spoke as one just awakened from a dream. Tell me, are notthese the symptoms, wherever you have travelled, of a budding love?

I took her hand; it was moist and cool, soft as the pulp of a magnoliaflower, --and I thought I felt her fingers faintly return my pressure. 

I am delighted that this scene occurred by moonlight and under theacacia's perfumed branches, for I affect poetical surroundings for mylove scenes. It would be disagreeable to recall a lovely face relievedagainst wall-paper covered with yellow scrolls; or a declaration of loveaccompanied, in the distance, by the Grace de Dieu; my first significantinterview with Louise will be associated in my thoughts with moonbeams, the odor of the iris and the song of the cricket in the summer grass. 

You, no doubt, pronounce me, dear Roger, a pitiable Don Juan, acommon-place Amilcar, for not profiting by the occasion. A young manstrolling at night in a garden with a screen painter ought at least tohave stolen a kiss! At the risk of appearing ridiculous, I did nothingof the kind. I love Louise, and besides she has at times such an air ofhauteur, of majestic disdain that the boldest commercial travellersteeped to the lips in Pigault-Lebrun, a sub-lieutenant wild withabsinthe would not venture such a caress--she would almost make onebelieve in virtue, if such a thing were possible. Frankly, I am afraidthat I am in earnest this time. Order me a dove-colored vest, apple-green trowsers, a pouch, a crook, in short the entire outfit of aLignon shepherd. I shall have a lamb washed to complete the pastoral. 

How I reached the château, whether walking or flying, I cannot tell. Happy as a king, proud as a god, for a new love was born in my heart. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

IX. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Préfecture, GRENOBLE (Isère). 

PARIS, June 2d 18--. 

It is five o'clock, I have just come from Pont de l'Arche, and I amgoing to the Odeon, which is three miles from here; it seems to me thatthe Odeon is three miles from every spot in Paris, for no matter whereyou live, you are never near the Odeon!

Madame Taverneau is delighted at the prospect of treating a poor, obscure, unsophisticated widow like myself to an evening at the theatre!She has a box that she obtained, by some stratagem, the hour we gothere. She seemed so hurt and disappointed when I refused to accompanyher, that I was finally compelled to yield to her entreaties. The goodwoman has for me a restless, troublesome affection that touches medeeply. A vague instinct tells her that fate will lead us throughdifferent paths in life, and in spite of herself, without being able toexplain why, she watches me as if she knew I might escape from her atany moment. 

She insisted upon escorting me to Paris, although she had nothing tocall her there, and her father, who is still my garret neighbor, did notexpect her. She relies upon taking me back to Pont de l'Arche, and Ihave not the courage to undeceive her; I also dread the moment when Iwill have to tell her my real name, for she will weep as if she werehearing my requiem. Tell me, what can I do to benefit her and herhusband; if they had a child I would present it with a handsome dowry, because parents gratefully receive money for their children, when theywould proudly refuse it for themselves. 

To confer a favor without letting it appear as one, requires moreconsideration, caution and diplomacy than I am prepared to devote tothe subject, so you must come to my relief and decide upon some plan. 

I first thought of making M. Taverneau manager of one of my estates--nowthat I have estates to be managed; but he is stupid . . . And alas, what amanager he would make! He would eat the hay instead of selling it; so Ihad to relinquish that idea, and as he is unfit for anything else, Iwill get him an office; the government alone possesses the art ofutilizing fools. Tell me what office I can ask for that will be veryremunerative to him--consult M. De Braimes; a Prefect ought to know howto manage such a case; ask him what is the best way of assisting aprotégé who is a great fool? Let me know at once what he says. 

I don't wish to speak of the subject to Roger, because it would berevealing the past. Poor Roger, how unhappy he must be! I long so to seehim, and by great kindness make amends for my cruelty. 

I told you of all the stratagems I had to resort to in order to find outwhat Roger had written to M. De Meilhan about his sorrows; well, thanksto my little sealing-wax boxes, I have seen Roger's letter! Yesterdayevening, M. De Meilhan brought me some new seals, and among the lettershe handed me was one from Roger! Imagine my feelings! I was sofrightened when I had the letter in my hand that I dared not read it;not because I was too honorable, but too prudish; I dreaded beingembarrassed by reading facts stated in that free and easy style peculiarto young men when writing to each other. The only concession I couldobtain from my delicacy was to glance at the three last lines: "I am notangry with her, I am only vexed with myself, " wrote the poor forsakenman. "I never told her how much I loved her; if she had known it, neverwould she have had the courage to desert me. "

This simple honest sorrow affected me deeply; not wishing to read anymore, I went into the garden to return M. De Meilhan his letters, andwas glad it was too dark for him to perceive my paleness and agitation. I at once decided to return to Paris, for I find that in spite of allmy fine programmes of cruelty, I am naturally tender-hearted anddistressed to death at the idea of making any one unhappy. I armedmyself with insensibility, and here I am already conquered by the firstgroans of my victim. I would make but an indifferent tyrant, and if allthe suspicious queens and jealous empresses like Elizabeth, Catharineand Christina had no more cruelty in their dispositions than I have, theworld would have been deprived of some of its finest tragedies. 

You may congratulate yourself upon having mitigated the severity of mydecrees, for it is my anxiety to please you that has made me so suddenlychange all my plans of tests and trials. You say it is undignified toact as a spy upon Roger, to conceal myself in Paris where he isanxiously seeking and waiting for me; that this ridiculous play has anair of intrigue, and had better be stopped at once or it may resultdangerously . . . I am resigned--I renounce the sensible idea of testingmy future husband . . . But be warned! If in the future I am tortured bydiscovering any glaring defects and odious peculiarities, that what youcall my indiscretion might have revealed before it was too late, youwill permit me to come and complain to you every day, and you mustpromise to listen to my endless lamentations as I repeat over and overagain. O Valentine, I have learned too late what I might have known intime to save me! Valentine, I am miserable and disappointed--console me!console me!

Doubtless to a young girl reared like yourself in affluence under yourmother's eye, this strange conduct appears culpable and indelicate; butremember, that with me it is the natural result of the sad life I haveled for the last three years; this disguise, that I reassume from fancy, was then worn from necessity, and I have earned the right of borrowingit a little while longer from misfortune to assist me in guardingagainst new sorrows. Am I not justified in wishing to profit byexperience too dearly bought? Is it not just that I should demand fromthe sad past some guarantees for a brighter future, and make my bittersorrows the stepping-stones to a happy life? But, as I intend to followyour advice, I'll do it gracefully without again alluding to myfrustrated plans. 

To-morrow I return to Fontainebleau. I stayed there five days when Iwent back with Madame Langeac; I only intended to remain a few minutes, but my cousin was so uneasy at finding her daughter worse, that I didnot like to leave before the doctor pronounced her better. This illnesswill assist me greatly in the fictions I am going to write Roger fromFontainebleau to-morrow. I will tell him we were obliged to leavesuddenly, without having time to bid him adieu, to go and nurse a sickrelative; that she is better now, and Madame de Langeac and I willreturn to Paris next week. In three days I shall return, and no one willever know I have been to Pont de l'Arche, except M. De Meilhan, who willdoubtless soon forget all about it; besides, he intends remaining inNormandy till the end of the year, so there is no risk of our meeting. 

Oh! I must tell you about the amusing evening M. De Meilhan and I spenttogether at Madame Taverneau's. How we did laugh over it! He was king ofthe feast, although he would not acknowledge it. Madame Taverneau was soproud of entertaining the young lord of the village, that she had rushedinto the most reckless extravagance to do him honor. She had thrown thewhole town in a state of excitement by sending to Rouen for a piano. Butthe grand event of the evening was a clock. Yet I must confess that theeffect was quite different from what she expected--it was a completefailure. We usually sit in the dining-room, but for this grand occasionthe parlor was opened. On the mantel-piece in this splendid room thereis a clock adorned by a dreadful bronze horse running away with a fiercewarrior and some unheard-of Turkish female. I never saw anything sohideous; it is even worse than your frightful clock with Columbusdiscovering America! Madame Taverneau thought that M. De Meilhan, beinga poet and an artist, would compliment her upon possessing so rare andvaluable a work of art. Fortunately he said nothing--he even refrainedfrom smiling; this showed his great generosity and delicacy, for it isonly a man of refinement and delicacy that respects one'sillusions--especially when they are illusions in imitation bronze!

Upon my arrival here this morning, I was pained to hear that the treesin front of my window are to be cut down; this news ought not to disturbme in the least, as I never expect to return to this house again, yet itmakes me very sad; these old trees are so beautiful, and I have thoughtso many things as I would sit and watch their long branches waving inthe summer breeze!. . . And the little light that shone like a star throughtheir thick foliage! shall I never see it again? It disappeared a yearago, and I used to hope it would suddenly shine again. I thought: It isabsent, but will soon return to cheer my solitude. Sometimes I wouldsay: "Perhaps my ideal dwells in that little garret!" O foolish idea!Vain hope! I must renounce all this poetry of youth; serious age creepson with his imposing escort of austere duties; he dispels the charmingfancies that console us in our sorrows; he extinguishes the brightlights that guide us through darkness--drives away the belovedideal--spreads a cloud over the cherished star, and harshly cries out:"Be reasonable!" which means: No longer hope to be happy. 

Ah! Madame Taverneau calls me; she is in a hurry to start for the Odeon;it is very early, and I don't wish to go until the last moment. I havesent to the Hotel de Langeac for my letters, and must wait to glanceover them--they might contain news about Roger. 

I have just caught a glimpse of the two ladies Madame Taverneau invitedto accompany us to the theatre. . . . I see a wine-colored bonnet trimmedwith green ribbons--it is horrible to look upon! Heavens--there comesanother! more intolerable than the first one! bright yellow adorned withblue feathers!. . . Mercy! what a face within the bonnet! and what afigure beneath the face! She has something glistening in her hand . . . Itis . . . A . . . Would you believe it? a travelling-bag covered with steelbeads!. . . She intends taking it to the theatre!. . . Do my eyes deceiveme? _can_ she be filling it with oranges to carry with her?. . . She darenot disgrace us by eating oranges. 

X. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Saint Dominique Street, Paris. 

RICHEPORT, June 3d, 18--

It seems, my dear Roger, that we are engaged in a game of interruptedaddresses. For my Louise Guérin, like your Irene de Chateaudun, has goneI know not where, leaving me to struggle, in this land of apple trees, with an incipient passion which she has planted in my breast. Flight hasthis year become an epidemic among women. 

The day after that famous soirée, I went to the post-office ostensiblyto carry the letter containing those triumphant details, but in realityto see Louise, for any servant possessed sufficient intelligence toacquit himself of such a commission. Imagine my surprise anddisappointment at finding instead of Madame Taverneau a strange face, who gruffly announced that the post-mistress had gone away for a fewdays with Madame Louise Guérin. The dove had flown, leaving to mark itspassage a few white feathers in its mossy nest, a faint perfume of gracein this common-place mansion!

I could have questioned Madame Taverneau's fat substitute, but I amprincipled against asking questions; things are explained soon enough. Disenchantment is the key to all things. When I like a woman I carefullyavoid all her acquaintance, any one who can tell me aught about her. Thesound of her name pronounced by careless lips, puts me to flight; theletters that she receives might be given me open and I should throwthem, unread, into the fire. If in speaking she makes any allusion tothe past events of her life, I change the conversation; I tremble whenshe begins a recital, lest some disillusionizing incident should escapeher which would destroy the impression I had formed of her. Asstudiously as others hunt after secrets I avoid them; if I have everlearned anything of a woman I loved, it has always been in spite of myearnest efforts, and what I have known I have carefully endeavored toforget. 

Such is my system. I said nothing to the fat woman, but entered Louise'sdeserted chamber. 

Everything was as she had left it. 

A bunch of wild flowers, used as a model, had not had time to fade; anunfinished bouquet rested on the easel, as if awaiting the last touchesof the pencil. Nothing betokened a final departure. One would have saidthat Louise might enter at any moment. A little black mitten lay upon achair; I picked it up--and would have pressed it to my lips, if such anaction had not been deplorably rococo. 

Then I threw myself into an old arm-chair, by the side of the bed--likeFaust in Marguerite's room--lifting the curtains with as much precautionas if Louise reposed beneath. You are going to laugh at me, I know, dearRoger, but I assure you, I have never been able to gaze upon a younggirl's bed without emotion. 

That little pillow, the sole confidant of timid dreams, that narrowcouch, fitted like a tomb for but one alabaster form, inspired me withtender melancholy. No anacreontic thoughts came to me, I assure you, norany disposition to rhyme in _ette_, herbette, filette, coudrette. Thelove I bear to noble poesy saved me from such an exhibition of badtaste. 

A crucifix, over which hung a piece of blessed box, spread its ivoryarms above Louise's untroubled slumber. Such simple piety touched me. Idislike bigots, but I detest atheists. 

Musing there alone it flashed upon me that Louise Guérin had never beenmarried, in spite of her assertion. I am disposed to doubt the existenceof the late Albert Guérin. A sedate and austere atmosphere surroundsLouise, suggesting the convent or the boarding-school. 

I went into the garden; the sunbeams checkered the steps of the porch;the wilted iris drooped on its stem, and the acacia flowers strewed thepathway. Apropos of acacia flowers, do you know, that fried in batter, they make excellent fritters? Finding myself alone in the walks where Ihad strolled with her, I do not know how it happened, but I felt myheart swell, and I sighed like a young abbé of the 17th century. 

I returned to the château, having no excuse for remaining longer, vexed, disappointed, wearied, idle--the habit of seeing Louise every day hadgrown upon me. 

And habit is everything to poor humanity, as that graceful poet Alfredde Musset says. My feet only know the way to the post-office; what shallI do with myself while this visit lasts? I tried to read, but myattention wandered; I skipped the lines, and read the same paragraphover twice; my book having fallen down I picked it up and read it forone whole hour upside down, without knowing it--I wished to make amonosyllabic sonnet--extremely interesting occupation--and failed. Myquatrains were tedious, and my tercets entirely too diffuse. 

My mother begins to be uneasy at my dullness; she has asked twice if Iwere sick--I have fallen off already a quarter of a pound; for nothingis more enraging than to be deserted at the most critical period ofone's infatuation! Ixion of Normandy, my Juno is a screen-painter, Iopen my arms and clasp only a cloud! My position, similar to yours, cannot, however, be compared with it--mine only relates to a triflingflirtation, a thwarted fancy, while yours is a serious passion for awoman of your own rank who has accepted your hand, and therefore has noright to trifle with you, --she must be found, if only for vengeance!

Remorse consumes me because of my sentimental stupidity by moonlight. Had I profited by the night, the solitude and the occasion, Louise hadnot left me; she saw clearly that I loved her, and was not displeased atthe discovery. Women are strange mixtures of timidity and rashness. 

Perhaps she has gone to join her lover, some saw-bones, somecounting-house Lovelace, while I languish here in vain, like Celadon orLygdamis of cooing memory. 

This is not at all probable, however, for Madame Taverneau would notcompromise her respectability so far as to act as chaperon to the lovesof Louise Guérin. After all, what is it to me? I am very good to troublemyself about the freaks of a prudish screen-painter! She will return, because the hired piano has not been sent back to Rouen, and not a soulin the house knows a note of music but Louise, who plays quadrilles andwaltzes with considerable taste, an accomplishment she owes to hermistress of painting, who had seen better days and possessed some skill. 

Do not be too much flattered by this letter of grievances, for I onlywanted an excuse to go to the post-office to see if Louise hasreturned--suppose she has not! the thought drives the blood back to myheart. 

Isn't it singular that I should fall desperately in love with thissimple shepherdess--I who have resisted the sea-green glances and smilesof the sirens that dwell in the Parisian ocean? Have I escaped from theMarquise's Israelite turbans only to become a slave to a straw bonnet? Ihave passed safe and sound through the most dangerous defiles to beworsted in open country; I could swim in the whirlpool, and now drown ina fish-pond; every celebrated beauty, every renowned coquette finds meon my guard. I am as circumspect as a cat walking over a table coveredwith glass and china. It is hard to make me pose, as they say in acertain set; but when the adversary is not to be feared, I allow him somany advantages that in the end he subdues me. 

I was not sufficiently on my guard with Louise at first. 

I said to myself: "She is only a grisette"--and left the door of myheart open--love entered in, and I fear I shall have some trouble indriving him out. 

Excuse, dear Roger, this nonsense, but I must write you something. Afterall, my passion is worth as much as yours. Love is the same whetherinspired by an empress or a rope-dancer, and I am just as unhappy atLouise's disappearance as you are at Irene's. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN

XI. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR DE MEILHAN, Pont de l'Arche (Eure). 

PARIS, June 3d 18--. 

She is in Paris!

Before knowing it I felt it. The atmosphere was filled with a voice, amelody, a brightness, a perfume that murmured: Irene is here!

Paris appears to me once more populated; the crowd is no longer a desertin my eyes; this great dead city has recovered its spirit of life; thesun once more smiles upon me; the earth bounds under my feet; the softsummer air fans my burning brow, and whispers into my ear that oneadored name--Irene!

Chance has a treasure-house of atrocious combinations. Chance! Thecunning demon! He calls himself Chance so as to better deceive us. Withan infernal skilfulness he feigns not to watch us in the decisivemoments of our lives, and at the same time leads us like blind foolsinto the very path he has marked out for us. 

You know the two brothers Ernest and George de S. Were planted by theirfamily in the field of diplomacy: they study Eastern languages andaffect Eastern manners. Well, yesterday we met in the Bois de Boulogne, they in a calash, and I on horseback--I am trying riding as a moralhygiene--as the carriage dashed by they called out to me an invitationto dinner; I replied, "Yes, " without stopping my horse. Idleness andindolence made me say "Yes, " when I should have said, "No;" but _Yes_ isso much easier to pronounce than _No_, especially on horseback. _No_necessitates a discussion; _Yes_ ends the matter, and economizes wordsand time. 

I was rather glad I had met these young sprigs of diplomacy. They aregood antidotes for low spirits, for they are always in a hilarious stateand enjoy their youth in idle pleasure, knowing they are destined togrow old in the soporific dulness of an Eastern court. 

I thought we three would be alone at dinner; alas! there were five ofus. 

Two female artistes who revelled in their precocious emancipation; twodivinities worshipped in the temple of the grand sculptors of modernAthens; the Scylla and Charybdis of Paris. 

I am in the habit of bowing with the same apparent respect to everywoman in the universe. I have bowed to the ebony women of Senegal; tothe moon-colored women of the Southern Archipelago; to the snow-whitewomen of Behring's Strait, and to the bronze women of Lahore and Ceylon. Now it was impossible for me to withdraw from the presence of two fairwomen whose portraits are the admiration of all connoisseurs who visitthe Louvre. Besides, I have a theory: the less respectable a woman is, the more respect we should show her, and thus endeavor to bring her backto virtue. 

I remained and tried to add my fifth share of antique gayety to thefeast. We were Praxiteles, Phidias and Scopas; we had inaugurated themodest Venus and her sister in their temples, and we drank to our modelgoddesses in wines from the Ionian Archipelago. 

That evening, you may remember, Antigone was played at the Odeon in theFaubourg Saint-Germain. 

I have another theory: in any action, foolish or wise, either carry itthrough bravely when once undertaken, or refrain from undertaking it. Ihad not the wisdom to refrain, therefore I was compelled to imitate thefolly of my friends; at dessert I even abused the invitation, and toooften sought to drown sorrow in the ruby cup. 

We started for the Odeon. Our entrance at the theatre caused quite anexcitement. The ladies, cavalierly suspended on the arms of the twofuture Eastern ambassadors, sailed in with a conscious air of epicureangrace and dazzling beauty. The classic ushers obsequiously threw openthe doors, and led us to our box. I brought up the procession, lookingas insolent and proud as I did the day I entered the ruined pagoda ofBangalore to carry off the statue of Sita. 

The first act was being played, and the Athenian school preserved areligious silence in front of the proscenium. The noise we made bydrawing back the curtain of our box, slamming the door and loudlylaughing, drowned for an instant the touching strains of the tragicchoir, and centred upon us the angry looks of the audience. 

With what cool impertinence did our divinities lean over the seats anddisplay their round white arms, that have so often been copied in Parianmarble by our most celebrated sculptors! Our three intellectual faces, wreathed in the silly smiles of intoxication, hovered over the silkencurls of our goddesses, thus giving the whole theatre a full view of ourhappiness!

Occasionally a glimmer of reason would cross my confused brain, and Iwould soliloquize: Why am I disgracing myself in this way before allthese people? What possesses me to act in concert with these drunkenfools and bold women? I must rush out and apologize to the first personI meet!

It was impossible for me to follow my good impulse--some unseen handheld me back--some mysterious influence kept me chained to the spot. Weare influenced by magic, although magicians no longer exist!

Between the acts, our two Greek statues criticised the audience in loudtones, and their remarks, seasoned with attic salt, afforded a peculiarsupplement to the choir of Antigone. 

"Those four women on our right must be sensible people, " said our blondestatue; "they have put their show-piece in front. I suppose she is thebeauty of the party; did you ever behold such dreadful bonnets anddresses? They must have come from the Olympic Circus. If I weredisfigured in that way, I would be a box-opener, but never would be seenin one!"

"I think I have seen them before, " said the bronze statue; they hiretheir bonnets from the fish-market--disgusting creatures that they are!"

"What do the two in the corner look like, my angel?"

"I see nothing but a shower of curls; I suppose _she_ found it moreeconomical to curl her hair than to buy a bonnet. Every time I stretchmy neck to get a look at her, she hides behind those superb bonnets. "

"Which proves, " said Ernest, "that she is paradoxically ugly. "

"I pity them, if they are seeking four husbands, " said George; "and ifthey are married--I pity their four husbands. "

Whilst my noisy companions were trying to discover their ideal fright inthe corner of the box on our right, I felt an inexplicable contractionof my heart--a chill pass through my whole body; my silly gayety was bysome unseen influence suddenly changed into sadness--I felt my eyes fillwith tears. The only way I could account for this revulsion in myfeelings was the growing conviction that I was disgracing myself in aden of malefactors of both sexes. My fit of melancholy was interruptedvery opportunely by the choir chanting the hymn of Bacchus, that antiquewonder, found by Mendelssohn in the ruins of the Temple of Victory. 

When the play was over, I timidly proposed that we should remain in ourbox till the crowd had passed out; but our Greek statues would not hearto it, as they had determined upon a triumphal exit. I was obliged toyield. 

The bronze statue despotically seized my arm, and dragged me toward thestair. I felt as if I had a cold lizard clinging to me. I was seizedwith that chilly sensation always felt by nervous people when they comein contact with reptiles. 

I recalled the disastrous day that I was shipwrecked on the island ofEaei-Namove, and compelled to marry Dai-Natha, the king's daughter, inorder to escape the unpleasant alternative of being eaten alive by herfather. On the staircase of the Odeon I regretted Dai-Natha. 

In the midst of the dense crowd that blockaded the stairway, I heard afrightened cry that made the blood freeze in my veins. There was but onewoman in the world blest with so sweet a voice--musical even when raisedin terror. 

If I were surrounded by crashing peals of thunder, rushing waters andyells of wild beasts, I still could recognise, through the din of allthis, the cry of a beloved woman. I am gifted with that marvellousperception of hearing, derived from the sixth sense, the sense of love. 

Irene de Chateaudun had uttered that cry of alarm--_Take care, my dear!_she had exclaimed with that accent of fright that it is impossible todisguise--in that tone that will be natural in spite of all the reservethat circumstances would impose, _Take care, my dear!_

Some one near me said that a door-keeper had struck a lady on theshoulder with a panel of a portable door which he was carrying acrossthe passage-way. By standing on my toes I could just catch a glimpse ofthe board being balanced in the air over every one's head. My eyes couldnot see the woman who had uttered this cry, but my ears told me it wasIrene de Chateaudun. 

The crowd was so dense that some minutes passed before I could move astep towards the direction of the cry, but when I had finally succeededin reaching the door, I flung from me the hateful arm that clung tomine, and rushing into the street, I searched through the crowd andlooked in every carriage and under every lady's hood to catch a glimpseof Irene, without being disconcerted by the criticisms that the peoplearound indulged in at my expense. 

Useless trouble! I discovered nothing. The theatre kept its secret; butthat cry still rings in my ears and echoes around my heart. 

This morning at daybreak I flew to the Hotel de Langeac. The porterstared at me in amazement, and answered all my eager inquiries with astolid, short _no_. The windows of Irene's room were closed and had thatdeserted appearance that proved the absence of its lovelyoccupant--windows that used to look so bright and beautiful when I wouldcatch glimpses of a snowy little hand arranging the curtains, or of agolden head gracefully bent over her work, totally unconscious of theloving eyes feasting upon her beauty--oh! many of my happiest momentshave been spent gazing at those windows, and now how coldly and silentlythey frowned upon my grief!

The porter lies! The windows lie! I exclaimed, and once more I began tosearch Paris. 

This time I had a more important object in view than trying to fatiguemy body and divert my mind. My eyes are multiplied to infinity; theyquestioned at once every window, door, alley, street, carriage and storein the city. I was like the miser who accused all Paris of having stolenhis treasure. 

At three o'clock, when all the beauty and fashion of Paris waspromenading on Paix aux Panoramas street, I was stopped on the cornerand button-holed by one of those gossiping friends whom fiendish chancealways sends at the most trying moments in life in order to disgust uswith friendship . . . A dazzling form passed before me . . . Irene alonepossesses that graceful ease, that fairy-like step, that queenlydignity--I could recognise her among a thousand--it was useless for herto attempt disguising her exquisite elegance beneath a peasant dress---besides I caught her eye, so all doubts were swept away; severalprecious minutes were lost in trying to shake off my vexatious friend. Iabruptly bade him good-day and darted after Irene, but she has the footof a gazelle, and the crowd was so compact that in spite of my elbowingand foot-crushing, I made but little headway. 

Finally, through an opening in the crowd, I saw Mlle. , de Chateaudunturn the corner and enter that narrow street near the Cafe Vernon. Thistime she cannot possibly escape me--she is in a long, narrow street, with deserted galleries on either side--circumstances are propitious toa meeting and explanation--in a minute I am in the narrow street a fewyards behind Irene. I prepare my mind for this momentous conversationwhich is to decide my fate. I firmly clasp my arms to still the violentthrobbings of my heart. I am about to be translated to heaven orengulfed by hell. 

She rapidly glanced at a Chinese store in front of her and, withoutshowing any agitation, quietly opened the door and went in. Very good, thought I, she will purchase some trifle and be out in a few minutes. Iwill wait for her. 

Five feet from the store I assumed the attitude of the god Terminus; bythe way, this store is very handsomely ornamented, and far surpasses inits elegant collection of Chinese curiosities the largest store of thesort in Hog Lane in the European quarter of Canton. 

Another of those kind friends whom chance holds in reserve for ourannoyance, came out of a bank adjoining the store, and inferring from mystatue-like attitude that I was dying of ennui and would welcome anydiversion, rushed up to me and said:

"Ah! my dear cosmopolitan, how are you to-day? Don't you want toaccompany me to Brussels? I have just bought gold for the journey; goldis very high, fifteen per cent. "

I answered by one of those listless smiles and unintelligiblemonosyllables which signifies in every language under the sun, don'tbore me. 

In the meantime I remained immovable, with my eyes fastened on theChinese store. I could have detected the flight of an atom. 

My friend struck the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, and supportinghis chin upon the gold head of his cane which he held in the airclenched by both hands, thus continued: "I did a very foolish thing thismorning. I bought my wife a horse, a Devonshire horse, from the Crémieuxstables. . . . That reminds me, my dear Roger, you are the very man todecide a knotty question for me. I bet D'Allinville thirty louis that. . . What would _you_ call a lady's horse?"

For some moments I preserved that silence which shows that we are not ina humor for talking; but friends sent by ingenious Chance understandnothing but the plainest language, so my friend continued his queries:

"What would you call a lady's horse?"

"I would call it a horse, " said I, with indifference. 

"Now, Roger, I believe you are right; D'Allinville insists that a lady'shorse is a palfrey. "

"In the language of chivalry he is right. "

"Then I have lost my bet?"

"Yes. "

"My dear Roger, this question has been worrying me for two days. "

"You are very fortunate to have nothing worse than a term of chivalry toannoy you. I would give all the gold in that broker's office if mytroubles were as light as yours. "

"I am afraid you _are_ unhappy, . . . You have been looking sad for sometime, Roger, . . . Come with me to Brussels. . . . We can make some splendidspeculations there. Now-a-days if the aristocracy don't turn theirattention to business once in a while, they will be completely swept outby the moneyed scum of the period. Let us make a venture: I hear oftwenty acres of land for sale, bordering on the Northern Railroad--thereis a clear gain of a hundred thousand francs as soon as the road isfinished; I offer you half--it is not a very risky game, nothing morethan playing lansquenet on a railroad!"

No signs of Irene. My impatience was so evident that this time, myobtuse friend saw it, and, shaking me by the hand, said:

"Good bye, my dear Roger, why in the world did you not tell me I was _detrop?_ Now that I see there is a fair lady in the case I will relieveyou of my presence. Adieu! adieu!"

He was gone, and I breathed again. 

By this time my situation had become critical. This Chinese door, likethat of Acheron, refused to surrender its prey. Time was passing. I hadsuccessively adopted every attitude of feverish expectation; I hadexhausted every pose of a museum of statues, and saw that my suspiciousblockade of the pavement alarmed the store-keepers. The broker adjoiningthe Chinese store seemed to be putting himself on the defensive, andmeditating an article for the _Gazette des Tribunaux_. 

I now regretted the departure of my speculating friend; his presencewould at least have given my conduct an air of respectability, --wouldhave legalized, so to speak, my odd behavior. This time chance left meto my own devices. 

I had held my position for two hours, and now, as a regard for publicopinion compelled me to retire, and I had no idea of doing so until Ihad achieved a victory, I determined to make an attack upon the citadelcontaining my queen of love and beauty. Irene had not left the store, for she certainly had no way of escaping except by the door which wasright in front of my eyes--she must be all this time selecting sometrifle that a man could purchase in five minutes, --it takes a woman aneternity to buy anything, no matter how small it may be! My situationhad become intolerable--I could stand it no longer; so arming myselfwith superhuman courage, I bravely opened the shop-door and entered asif it were the breach of a besieged city. 

I looked around and could see nothing but a confused mingling of objectsliving and dead; I could only distinguish clearly a woman bowing overthe counter, asking me a question that I did not hear. My agitation mademe deaf and blind. 

"Madame, " I said, "have you any . . . Chinese curiosities?"

"We have, monsieur, black tea, green tea, and some very fine Pekin. "

"Well, madame, . . . Give me some of all. "

"Do you want it in boxes, monsieur?"

"In boxes, madame, if you choose. "

I looked all around the room and saw nobody but two old women standingbehind another counter--no signs of Irene. 

I paid for my tea, and while writing down my address, I questioned thesaleswoman:

"I promised my wife to meet her here at three o'clock to select thistea--not that my presence was necessary, as her taste is alwaysmine--but she requested me to come, and I fear I have made a mistake inthe hour, my watch has run down and I had no idea it was so late--I hopeshe did not wait for me? has she been here?" Thereupon I gave a minutedescription of Irene de Chateaudun, from the color of her hair to theshade of her boot. 

"Yes, monsieur, she was here about three o'clock, it is now five; shewas only here a few minutes--long enough to make a little purchase. "

"Yes, . . . I gasped out, . . . I know, but I thought I saw her . . . Did shenot come in . . . That door?"

"Yes, sir, she entered by that door and went out by the opposite one, that one over there, " said she, pointing to a door opening on NewVivienne street. 

I suppressed an oath, and rushed out of the door opening on this newstreet, as if I expected to find Mlle. De Chateaudun patiently waitingfor me to join her on the pavement. My head was in such a whirl that Ihad not the remotest idea of where I was going, and I wanderedrecklessly through little streets that I had never heard of before--itmade no difference to me whether I ran into Scylla or Charybdis--I carednot what became of me. 

Like the fool that repeats over and over again the same words withoutunderstanding their meaning, I kept saying: "The fiend of a woman! thefiend of a woman!" At this moment all my love seemed turned to hate! butwhen this hate had calmed down to chill despair, I began to reflect withagonizing fear that perhaps Irene had seen me at the Odeon with thosedreadful women. I felt that I was ruined in her eyes for ever! She wouldnever listen to my attempt at vindication or apologies--women are sounforgiving when a man strays for a moment from the path of propriety, and they regard little weaknesses in the light of premeditated crimes, too heinous for pardon--Irene would cry out with the poet:

 "Tu te fais criminel pour te justifier!"

You are fortunate, my dear Edgar, in having found the woman you havealways dreamed of and hoped for; you will have all the charms of lovewithout its troubles; it is folly to believe that love is strengthenedby its own torments and stimulated by sorrows. A storm is only admiredby those on shore; the suffering sailors curse the raging sea and prayfor a calm. 

Your letter, my dear Edgar, is filled with that calm happiness that isthe foundation of all true love; in return, I can only send you anaccount of my despair. Friendship is often a union of these twocontrasts. 

Enjoy your happy lot, my friend; your reputation is made. You have agood name, an enviable and an individual philosophy, borrowed neitherfrom the Greeks nor the Germans. Your future is beautiful; cherish thesweetest dreams; the woman you love will realize them all. 

Night is a bad counsellor, so I dare not make any resolutions, or cometo any decision at this dark hour. I shall wait for the sun to enlightenmy mind. 

In my despair I have the mournful consolation of knowing that Irene isin Paris. This great city has no undiscovered secrets; everything andevery person hid in its many houses is obliged sooner or later to appearin the streets. I form the most extravagant projects; I will buy, ifnecessary, the indiscretion of all the discreet lips that guard thedoors; I shall recruit an army of salaried spies. On the coast of theCoromandel there is a tribe of Indians whose profession is to dive intothe Gulf of Bengal, that immense bathing-tub of the sun, and search fora beautiful pearl that lies buried among the coral beds at the bottom ofthe ocean. It is a pearl of great price, as valuable as the finestdiamond. . . . Irene is my pearl of great price, and I will search for andfind her in this great ocean of men and houses called Paris. . . . Afterthinking and wondering till I am dizzy and sick at heart, I have come tothe conclusion that Irene is acting in this manner to test my love--thisthought consoles me a little, and I try to drown my sorrow in thethought of our mutual happiness, when I shall have triumphantly passedthrough the ordeal. 

The most charming of women is willing to believe that everybody lovesexcept her lover. 

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XII. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Grenoble, (Isère). 

PARIS, June 2d--Midnight. 

Oh! How indignant I am! How angry and mortified are my feelings! GoodHeavens! how his shameful conduct makes me hate and despise him!. . . Iwill try to be calm--to collect my scattered thoughts and give you aclear account of what has just occurred--tell you how all of my plansare destroyed--how I am once more alone in this cruel world, more sad, more discouraged and more hopeless than I ever was in my darkest days ofmisery and poverty. . . . But I cannot be calm--it is impossible for me tocontrol my indignation when I think of the shameful behavior of thisman--of his gross impertinence--his insolent duplicity. . . . Well, I wentto the Odeon; M. De Monbert was there, I saw him, he certainly made noattempt to conceal his presence; you know he plumes himself upon beingopen and frank--never hides anything from the world--wishes people tosee him in his true character, &c. , precisely what I saw to-night. Yes, Valentine, there he was as tipsy as a coachman--with those littlehair-brained de S. 's, the eldest simply tipsy as a lord, the young one, George, was drunk, very drunk. This is not all, the fascinating Princewas escort to two fashionable beauties, two miserable creatures ofdistressing notoriety, two of those shameless women whom we cannot failto recognise on account of their scandalous behavior in public; sort ofmarket-women disguised as fashion-plates--half apple-venders, halfcoquettes, who tap men on the cheek with their scented gloves andintersperse their conversation with dreadful oaths from behind theirbouquets and Pompadour fans! . . . These creatures talked in shrill tones, laughed out loud enough to be heard by every one around--joined in thechorus of the Choir of Antigone with the old men of Thebes!. . . Peoplein the gallery said: "they must have dined late, " that was a charitableconstruction to put upon their shameful conduct--I thought to myself, this is their usual behavior--they are always thus. 

I must tell you, so you can better appreciate my angry mortification, that just as we were stepping into the carriage the servant handed methe letters that I had sent him to bring from the Hotel de Langeac. Among the number was one from M. De Monbert, written several days afterI had left Paris; this letter is worthy of being sent to Grenoble; Ienclose it. While reading it, my dear Valentine, don't forget that Iread it at the theatre, and my reading was constantly interrupted by thevulgar conversation and noisy laughter of M. De Monbert and his choicecompanions, and that each high-flown sentence of this hypocritical notehad at the same time a literal and free translation in the scandalousremarks, bursts of laughter, and stupid puns of the despicable man whohad written it. 

I confess that this flow of wit interfered with my perusal of thesetouching reproaches; the brilliant improvisations of the oratorprevented me from becoming too much affected by the elegiacs of thewriter. 

Here is the note that I was trying to decipher through my tears whenMonsieur de Monbert swaggered into the theatre. 

"Is this a test of love--a woman's vengeance or an idle caprice, Mademoiselle? My mind is not calm enough to solve the enigma. Bemerciful and drive me not to madness! To-morrow may be too late--thenyour words of reason might be responded to by the jargon of insanity!Beware! and cast aside your cloak of mystery before the sun once moregoes down upon my frenzy. All is desolation and darkness within andwithout--nothing appears bright to my eyes, and my soul is wrapped ingloom. In your absence I cease to live, but it seems as if my deep lovegives me still enough strength to hold a wandering pen that my mind nolonger guides. With my love I gave you my soul and mind--what remains tome would excite your pity. I implore you to restore me to life. 

"You cannot comprehend the ecstasy of a man who loves you, and thedespair of a man who loses you. Before knowing you I never could haveimagined these two extremes, separated by a whole world and broughttogether in one instant. To be envied by the angels--to breathe the airof heaven--to seek among the divine joys for a name to give one'shappiness, and suddenly, like Lucifer, to be dashed by a thunderboltinto an abyss of darkness, and suffer the living death of the damned!

"This is your work!

"No, it cannot be a jest, it is not a vengeance; one does not jest withreal love, one does does not take vengeance on an innocent man; then itmust be a test! a test! ah well, it has been borne long enough, and mybleeding heart cries out to you for mercy. If you prolong this ordeal, you will soon have no occasion to doubt my love!. . . Your grief will beremorse. 

"ROGER. "

Yes, you are right this time, my dear Prince; my sorrow is remorse, deepremorse; I shall never forgive myself for having been momentarilytouched by your hear-trending moans and for having shed real tears overyour dramatic pathos. 

I was seated in the corner of our box, trembling with emotion andweeping over these tender reproaches--yes, I wept!--he seemed so sad, sotrue to me--I was in an humble frame of mind, thoroughly convinced bythis touching appeal that I had been wicked and unjust to doubt sofaithful a heart. I was overcome by the magnitude of my offence--athaving caused this great despair by my cruelty. Each word of thiselaborate dirge was a dagger to my heart; I credulously admired theeloquence and simplicity of the style; I accepted as beautiful writingall these striking images--these antitheses full of passion andpretension: "_Reason responded to by insanity_. " "_The power of lovethat gives him strength to hold a pen. Extremes separated by a wholeworld and brought together in an instant, and this living death that hesuffers, this name for his past happiness that had to be sought foramong the joys of heaven!_"

I accepted as gospel truth all these high-flown fictions, and wasastonished at nothing until I came to the _Lucifer_ part; that, Iconfess, rather startled me--but the finishing tirade composed me. Ithought it fascinating, thrilling, heart-rending! In my enthusiasticpity I was, by way of expiation, admiring the whole letter when I wasdisturbed by a frightful noise made by people entering the adjoiningbox. I felt angry at their insulting my sadness with their heartlessgayety. I continue to read, admire and weep--my neighbors continue tolaugh and make a noise. Amidst this uproar I recognise a familiarvoice--I listen--it is certainly the Prince de Monbert--I cannot bemistaken. Probably he has come here with strangers--he has travelled somuch that he is obliged to do the honors of Paris to grand ladies whowere polite to him abroad--but from what part of the world could thesegrand ladies have come? They seem to be indulging in a queer style ofconversation. One of them boldly looked in our box, and exclaimed, "Fourwomen! Four monsters!" I recognised her as a woman I had seen at theVersailles races--all was explained. 

Then they played a sort of farce for their own pleasure, to the greatannoyance of the audience. I will give you a sample of it, so you canhave an idea of the wit and good taste displayed by these gentlemen. Themost intoxicated of the young men asked, between two yawns, who were theauthors of _Antigone?_ "Sophocles, " said M. De Monbert. "But there aretwo, are there not?" "Two _Antigones?_" said the Prince laughing; "yes, there is Ballanche's. " "Ah, yes! Ballanche, that is his name, " cried outthe ignorant creature; "I knew I saw two names on the hand-bill! Do youknow them?"

"I am not acquainted with Sophocles, " said the Prince, becoming more andmore jovial, "but I know Ballanche; I have seen him at the Academy. "

This brilliant witticism was wonderfully successful; they all clapped soloud and laughed so hilariously that the audience became very angry, andcalled out, "Silence!" "Silence!" For a moment the noisy were quiet, butsoon they were worse than ever, acting like maniacs. At the end of eachscene, little George de S. , who is a mere school-boy, cried out indeafening tones: "Bravo! Ballanche!" then turning to the neighboringboxes he said: "My friends, applaud; you must encourage the author;" andthe two bold women clapped their hands and shrieked out, "Let usencourage Ballanche! Bravo! Ballanche!" It was absurd. 

Madame Taverneau and her friends were indignant; they had heard thecompliment bestowed upon us--"Four women. Four monsters!" This rapidappreciation of our elegant appearance did not make them feel indulgenttowards our scandalous neighbors. Near us were several newspaper men whogave the names of the Prince de Monbert, the Messrs. De S. , and theirtwo beauties. These journalists spoke with bitter contempt of what theycalled the young lions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, of the rudemanners of the aristocracy, of the ridiculous scruples of those proudlegitimists, who feared to compromise themselves in the interests oftheir country, and yet were compromised daily by a thousandextravagances; then they related falsehoods that were utterly withoutfoundation, and yet were made to appear quite probable by thedisgraceful conduct of the young men before us. You may imagine howcruelly I suffered, both as a fiancée and as a legitimist. I blushed forour party in the presence of the enemy; I felt the insult offered to mepersonally less than I did the abuse brought upon our cause. Inlistening to those deserved sneers I detested Messrs. De S. As much as Idid Roger. I decided during this hour of vexation and shame that I wouldrather always remain simple Madame Gruérin than become the Princess deMonbert. 

What do you think of this despair, the result of champagne? Ought I notto be touched by it? How sweet it is to see one's self so deeplyregretted!

It is quite poetical and even mythological; Ariadne went no further thanthis. She demanded of Bacchus consolation for the sorrows caused bylove. How beautifully _he_ sang the hymn to Bacchus in the last act ofAntigone! He has a fine tenor voice; until now I was not aware of hispossessing this gift. How happy he seemed among his charmingcompanions! Valentine, was I not right in saying that the trial ofdiscouragement is infallible? In love despair is a snare; to cease tohope is to cease to feign; a man returns to his nature as soon ashypocrisy is useless. The Prince has proved to me that he prefers lowsociety, that it is his natural element; that he had completelymetamorphosed himself so as to appear before us as an elegant, refined, dignified gentleman!

Oh! this evening he certainly was sincere; his real character was on thesurface; he made no effort to restrain himself; he was perfectly athome, in his element; and one cannot disguise his delight at being inhis element. There is a carelessness in his movements that betrays hisself-satisfaction; he struts and spreads himself with an air ofconfidence; he seems to float in the air, to swim on the crest of thewave . . . People can conceal their delight when they have recognised anadored being among a crowd . . . Can avoid showing that a piece ofinformation casually heard is an important fact that they have beentrying to discover for weeks; . . . Can hide sudden fear, deep vexation, great joy; but they cannot hide this agreeable impression, thisbeatitude that they feel upon suddenly returning to their element, afterlong days of privation and constraint. Well, my dear, the element ofMonsieur de Monbert is low company. I take credit to myself for notsaying anything more. 

I have often observed these base proclivities in persons of the samehigh condition of life as the Prince. Men brought up in the most refinedand cultivated society, destined to fill important positions in life, take the greatest pleasure in associating-with common people; theyimpose elegance upon themselves as a duty, and indulge in vulgarity as arecreation; they have a spite against these charming qualities they arecompelled to assume, and indemnify themselves for the trouble ofacquiring them by rendering them mischievously useless when they seeklow society and attempt to shine where their brilliancy isunappreciated. This low tendency of human nature explains the eternalstruggle between nature and education; explains the taste, the passionof intelligent distinguished men for bad company; the more reserved anddignified they are in their manners, the more they seek the society ofworthless men and blemished women. Another reason for this lowproclivity is the vanity of men; they like to be admired and flattered, although they know their admirers are utterly worthless and despicable. 

All these turpitudes would be unimportant if our poor nobility werestill triumphantly occupying their rightful position; but while they arestruggling to recover their prestige what can be done with suchrepresentatives? Oh, I hated those little fools who by their culpablefolly compromised so noble a cause! Can they not see that each of theirsilly blunders furnishes an arm against the principles they defend, against their party, against us all? They are at war with a country thatdistrusts their motives and detests and envies their advantages . . . Andthey amuse themselves by irritating the country by their aggressivehostility and blustering idleness. By thus displaying their ill mannersand want of sense, it seems as if they wished to justify all theaccusations of their enemies and gain what they really deserve, a worsereputation than they already bear. They are accused of being ignorant. . . They are illiterate! They are accused of being impudent . . . They areinsolent! They are accused of being beasts . . . They show themselves tobe brutes! And yet not much is exacted of them, because they are knownto be degenerate. Only half what is required from others is expectedfrom them. They are not asked for heroism or talent, or genius: they areonly expected to behave with dignity, they cannot even assume it! Theyare not asked to add to the lustre of their names, they are onlyentreated to respect them--and they drag them in the mire! Ah, thesepeople make me die of shame and indignation. 

It is from this nursery of worthless, idle young fops that I, Irene deChateaudun, will be forced to choose a husband. No, never will I sufferthe millions that Providence has bestowed upon me to be squandered uponballet-dancers and the scum of Paris! If it be absolutely necessary thatmy fortune should be enjoyed by women, I will bestow it upon a convent, where I will retire for the rest of my life; but I certainly wouldprefer becoming the wife of a poor, obscure, but noble-minded student, thirsting for glory and ambitious of making illustrious his plebeianname, seeking among the dust of ages for the secret of fame . . . Than tomarry one of the degenerate scions of an old family, who crawl aroundcrushed by the weight of their formidable name; these little burlesquenoblemen who retain nothing of their high position but pride and vanity;who can neither think, act, work nor suffer for their country; thesedisabled knights who wage war against bailiffs and make their namesnotorious in the police offices and tap-rooms of the Boulevard. 

It is glorious to feel flowing in one's veins noble, heroic blood, to beintoxicated with youthful pride when studying the history of one'scountry, to see one's school-mates forced to commit to memory as a duty, the brilliant record of the heroic deeds of our ancestors! To enter upona smooth path made easy and pleasant for us by those gone before; to bealready armed with the remembrance of noble deeds, laden with generouspromises; to have praiseworthy engagements to fulfil, grand hopes torealize; to have in the past powerful protectors, inspiring models thatone can invoke in the hour of crisis like exceptional patrons, likesaints belonging exclusively to one's own family; to have one's conducttraced out by masters of whom we are proud; to have nothing toimagine--nothing to originate, no good example to set, nothing to do butto nobly continue the work grandly commenced, to keep up the tradition, to follow the old routine--it is especially glorious when the traditionis of honor, when the routine is of glory. 

But who comprehends these sentiments now? Who dares utter these noblewords without an ironical smile? Only a few helpless believers likemyself who still energetically but vainly protest against thesedegradations. Some go to Algeria to prove their hereditary bravery andobtain the Cross of Honor they are deprived of here; others retire totheir châteaux and study the fine arts, thus enjoying the only generousresource of discouraged souls; surrounded by the true and the beautiful, they try to forget an ungrateful and degenerate party. Others, disciplesof Sully, temper their strength by hard work in the fruitful study ofsacred science, and become enthusiastic, absorbed husbandmen, in orderto conceal their misanthropy. But what can they do? Fight all alone fora deserted cause? What can the best officers accomplish withoutsoldiers?

You see, Valentine, I forget my own sorrows in thinking of our commonwoes; when I reflect upon the sad state of public affairs, I find Rogerdoubly culpable. Possessing so brilliant a mind, such superb talents, hecould by his influence bring these young fools back to the path ofhonor. How unpardonable it is in him to lead them further astray by hisdangerous example?

Oh, Valentine! I feel that I am not fitted to live in times like these. Everything displeases me. The people of past ages seemed unintelligent, impracticable the people of the present day are coarse andhypocritical--the former understand nothing, the latter perverteverything. The former had not the attainments that I require, thelatter have not the delicacy that I exact. The world is ugly; I haveseen enough of it. It is sad to think of one so young as I, justentering upon life, having my head weighed down by the cares anddisappointments of sixty years! For a blonde head this weight is veryheavy!

What! in this grand world, not one noble being, not one elevated soulpossessed of high aspirations and a holy respect for love!

For a young woman to own millions and be compelled to hoard them becauseshe has no one to bestow them upon! To be rich, young, free, generous, and forced to live alone because no worthy partner can be found!. . . 

Valentine, is not this a sad case?

Now my anger is gone--I am only sad, but I am mortally sad. . . . I knownot what to do. . . . Would I could fly to your arms! Ah! mother! mymother! why am I left to struggle all alone in this unfeeling world!

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XIII. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Saint Dominique Street, Paris. 

RICHEPORT, June 8th 18--. 

She is here! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!

The same day that you found Irene, I recovered Louise!

In making my tenth pilgrimage from Richeport to Pont de l'Arche, Icaught a glimpse from afar of Madame Taverneau's plump face encased in asuperb bonnet embellished with flaming ribbons! The drifting sea-weedand floating fruit which were the certain indication to ChristopherColumbus of the presence of his long-dreamed-of land, did not make hisheart bound with greater delight than mine at the sight of MadameTaverneau's bonnet! For that bonnet was the sign of Louise's return. 

Oh! how charming thou didst appear to me then, frightful tulle cabbage, with thy flaunting strings like unto an elephant's ears, and thyenormous bows resembling those pompons with which horses' heads aredecorated! How much dearer to me wert thou than the diadem of anempress, a vestal's fillet, the ropes of pearls twined among the jettylocks of Venice's loveliest patricians, or the richest head-dress ofantique or modern art!

Ah, but Madame Taverneau was handsome! Her complexion, red as a beet, seemed to me fresh as a new-blown rose, --so the poets always say, --Icould have embraced her resolutely, so happy was I. 

The thought that Madame Taverneau might have returned alone flashedthrough my mind ere I reached the threshold, and I felt myself growpale, but a glance through the half-open door drove away my terror. There, bending over her table, was Louise, rolling grains of rice in redsealing-wax in order to fill the interstices between the seals that shehad gotten from me, and among which figured marvellously well your crestso richly and curiously emblazoned. 

A slender thread of light falling upon the soft contour of herfeatures, carved in cameo their pure and delicate outline. When she sawme a faint blush brightened her pallor like a drop of crimson in a cupof milk; she was charming, and so distinguished-looking that, puttingaside the pencils, the vase of flowers, the colors and the glass ofclear water beside her, I should never have dreamt that a simplescreen-painter sat before me. 

Isn't it strange, when so many fashionable women in the highest positionlook like apple-sellers or old-clothes women in full dress, that a girlin the humblest walks of life should have the air of a princess, inspite of her printed cotton gown!

With me, dear Roger, Louise Guérin the grisette has vanished; but LouiseGuérin, a charming and fascinating creature whom any one would be proudto love, has taken her place. You know that with all my oddities, mywilfulness, my _Huronisms_ as you call them, the slightest equivocalword, the least approach to a bold jest, uttered by feminine lips shocksme. Louise has never, in the many conversations that I have had withher, alarmed my captious modesty; and often the most innocent younggirls, the virtuous mothers of a family, have made me blush up to myeyes. I am by no means so prudish; I discourse upon Trimalcion's feastand the orgies of the twelve Caesars, but certain expressions, used byevery one, never pass my lips; I imagine that I see toads and serpentsdrop from the tongues of those who speak them: only roses and pearlsfall from Louise's lips. How many women have fallen in my eyes from therank of a goddess to the condition of a fishwoman, by one word whoseignominy I might try in vain to make them understand!

I have told you all this, my dear Roger, so that you may see how from anordinary railway adventure, a slight flirtation, has resulted a seriousand genuine love. I treat myself and things with rough frankness, andclosely scan my head and heart, and arrive at the same result--I amdesperately in love with Louise. The result does not alarm me; I havenever shrunk from happiness. It is my peculiar style of courage, whichis rarer than you imagine; I have seen men who would seek the bubblereputation even in the cannon's mouth, who had not the courage to behappy!

Since her return Louise appears thoughtful and agitated; a change hascome over the spirit of her dream. It is evident that her journey hasthrown new light upon her situation. Something important has taken placein her life. What is it? I neither know nor care to know. I acceptLouise as I find her with her present surroundings. Perhaps absence hasrevealed to her, as it has to me, that another existence is necessary toher. This at least is certain, she is less shy, less reserved, moreconfiding; there is a tender grace in her manner unfelt before. When wewalk in the garden, she leans upon my arm, instead of touching it withthe tips of her fingers. Now, when I am with her, her cold reservebegins to thaw, and instead of going on with her work, as formerly, sherests her head on her hand and gazes at me with a dreamy fixednesssingular to behold. She seems to be mentally deliberating something, andtrying to come to a conclusion. May Eros, with his golden arrows, grantthat it prove favorable to me! It will prove so, or human will has nopower, and the magnetic fluid is an error!

We are sometimes alone, but that cursed door is never shut, and MadameTaverneau paces up and down outside, coming in at odd moments to enliventhe conversation with a witticism, in which exercise the good woman, unhappily, thinks she excels. She fears that Louise, who is notaccustomed to the usages of society, may tire me. I am neither a Neronor a Caligula, but many a time have I mentally condemned the honestpost-mistress to the wild beasts of the Circus!

To get Louise away from this room, whose architecture is by no meansconducive to love-making, I contrived a boating party to the Andelys, with the respectable view of visiting the ruins of RichardCoeur-de-Lion's fortress. The ascent is extremely rough, for the donjonis poised, like an eagle's nest, upon the summit of a steep rock; and Icounted upon Madame Taverneau, strangled in her Sunday stays, breathless, perspiring, red as a lobster put on hot-water diet, takingtime half-way up the ascent to groan and fan herself with herhandkerchief. 

Alfred stopped by on his way from Havre, and for once in his life was inseason. I placed the rudder in his hands, begging at the same time thathe would spare me his fascinating smiles, winks and knowing glances. Hepromised to be a stock and kept his word, the worthy fellow!

A fresh breeze sprang up in time to take us up the river. We foundLouise and Madame Taverneau awaiting us upon the pier, built a shorttime since in order to stem the rush of water from the bridge. 

Proud of commanding the embarkation, Alfred established himself withMadame Taverneau, wrapped in a yellow shawl with a border of greenflowers, in the stern. Louise and I, in order to balance the boat, seated ourselves in the bows. 

The full sail made a sort of tent, and isolated us completely from ourcompanions. Louise, with only a narrow canvas shaking in the windbetween her and her chaperon, feeling no cause for uneasiness, was lessreserved; a third party is often useful in the beginning of a love idyl. The most prudish woman in the world will grant slight favors when surethey cannot be abused. 

Our boat glided through the water, leaving a fringe of silver in itswake. Louise had taken off her glove, and, leaning over the side, letthe water flow in crystal cascades through her ivory fingers; her dress, which she gathered round her from the too free gambols of the wind, sculptured her beauty by a closer embrace. A few little wild flowersscattered their restless leaves over her bonnet, the straw of which, litup by a bright sun-ray, shed around her a sort of halo. I sat at herfeet, embracing her with my glance; bathing her in magnetic influences;surrounding her with an atmosphere of love! I called to my assistanceall the powers of my mind and heart to make her love me and promise tobe mine!

Softly I whispered to myself: "Come to my succor, secret forces ofnature, spring, youth, delicate perfumes, bright rays! Let soft zephyrsplay around her pure brow; flowers of love, intoxicate her with yoursearching odors; let the god of day mingle his golden beams with thepurple of her veins; let all living, breathing things whisper in her earthat she is beautiful, only twenty, that I am young and that I loveher!" Are poetical tirades and romantic declarations absolutelynecessary to make a lovely woman rest her blushing brow upon a youngman's shoulder?

My burning gaze fascinated her; she sat motionless under my glance. Ifelt my hope sparkle in my eyes; her eyelids slowly drooped; her armssank at her side; her will succumbed to mine; aware of her growingweakness, she made a final effort, covered her eyes with her hand, andremained several minutes in that attitude in order to recover from theradiations of my will. 

When she had, in a measure, recovered her self-possession, she turnedher head towards the river-bank and called my attention to the charmingeffect of a cottage embosomed in trees, from which rickety steps, moss-grown and picturesquely studded with flowers, led down to theriver. One of Isabey's delicious water-colors, dropped here without hissignature. Louise--for art, no matter how humble, always expands themind--has a taste for the beauties of nature, wanting in nearly herwhole sex. A flower-stand filled with roses best pleases the majority ofwomen, who cultivate a love of flowers in order to provoke anacreonticand obsolete comparisons from their antiquated admirers. 

The banks of the Seine are truly enchanting. The graceful hills arestudded with trees and waving corn-fields; here and there a rock peepspicturesquely forth; cottages and distant châteaux are betrayed by theirglittering slate roofs; islets as wild as those of the South Sea rise onthe bosom of the waters like verdure-clad rafts, and no Captain Cook hasever mentioned these Otaheites a half-day's journey from Paris. 

Louise intelligently and feelingly admired the shading of the foliage, the water rippled by a slight breeze, the rapid flight of thekingfisher, the languid swaying to and fro of the water-lily, thelittle forget-me-nots opening their timid blue eyes to the morning sun, and all the thousand and one beauties dotted along the river's bank. Ilet her steep her soul in nature's loveliness, which could only teachher to love. 

In about four hours we reached the Andelys, and after a light lunch offresh eggs, cream, strawberries and cherries, we began the ascent to thefortress of the brave king Richard. 

Alfred got along famously with Madame Taverneau, having completelydazzled her by an account of his high social acquaintance. During thevoyage he had repeated more names than can be found in the RoyalAlmanac. The good post-mistress listened with respectful deference, delighted at finding herself in company with such a highly connectedindividual. Alfred, who is not accustomed, among us, to benevolentlisteners, gave himself up to the delight of being able to talk withoutfear of interruption from jests and ironical puns. They had charmed eachother. 

The stronghold of Richard Coeur-de-Lion recalls, by its situation andarchitecture, the castles of the Rhine. The stone-work is so confoundedwith the rock that it is impossible to say where nature's work ends orman's work begins. 

We climbed, Louise and I, in spite of the steep ascent, the loosestones, over the ramparts fallen to decay, the brushwood and all sortsof obstacles, to the foot of the mass of towers built one withinanother, which form the donjon-keep. Louise was obliged more than once, in scrambling up the rocks, to give me her hand and lean upon myshoulder. Even when the way was less rugged, she did not put aside herunconstrained and confiding manner; her timid and intense reserve beganto soften a little. 

Madame Taverneau, who is not a sylph, hung with all her weight toAlfred's arm, and what surprises me is that she did not pull it off. 

We made our way through the under-brush, masses of rubbish and crumblingwalls, to the platform of the massive keep, from whence we saw, besidesthe superb view, far away in the distance, Madame Taverneau's yellowshawl, shining through the foliage like a huge beetle. 

At this height, so far above the world, intoxicated by the fresh air, her cheek dyed a deeper red, her hair loosened from its severefastenings, Louise was dazzlingly and radiantly beautiful; her bonnethad fallen off and was only held by the ribbon strings; a handful ofdaisies escaped from her careless grasp. 

"What a pity, " said I, "that I have not a familiar spirit at my service!We should soon see the stones replaced, the towers rise from the grasswhere they have slept so long, and raise their heads in the sunlight;the drawbridge slide on its hinges, and men-at-arms in dazzlingcuirasses pass and repass behind the battlements. You should sit besideme as my chatelaine, in the great hall, under a canopy emblazoned witharmorial bearings, the centre of a brilliant retinue of ladies inwaiting, archers and varlets. You should be the dove of this kite'snest!"

This fancy made her smile, and she replied: "Instead of amusing yourselfin rebuilding the past, look at the magnificent scene stretched outbefore you. "

In fact, the sky was gorgeous; the sun was sinking behind the horizon, in a hamlet of clouds, ruined and abandoned to the fury of the names ofsunset; the darkened hills were shrouded in violet tints; through thelight mists of the valley the river shone at intervals like the polishedsurface of a Damascus blade. The blue smoke ascended from the chimneysof the village of Andelys, nestling at the foot of the mountain; thesilvery tones of the bells ringing the Angelus came to us on the eveningbreeze; Venus shone soft and pure in the western sky. Madame Taverneauhad not yet joined us; Alfred's fascinations had made her forget hercompanion. 

Louise, uneasy at being so long separated from her chaperon, leaned overthe edge of the battlement. A stone, which only needed the weight of atired swallow to dislodge it, rolled from Under Louise's foot, who, terribly frightened, threw herself in my arms. I held her for a momentpressed to my heart. She was very pale; her head was thrown back, thedizziness of lofty heights had taken possession of her. 

"Do not let me fall; my head whirls!"

"Fear not, " I replied; "I am holding you, and the spirit of the gulfshall not have you. "

"Ouf! What an insane idea, to climb like cats over this old pile ofstones!" cried Alfred, who had finally arrived, dragging after himMadame Taverneau, who with her shawl looked like a poppy in acorn-field. We left the tower and gained our boat. Louise threw me atearful and grateful glance, and seated herself by Madame Taverneau. Atug-boat passed us; we hailed it; it threw us a rope, and in a few hourswe were at Pont de l'Arche. 

This is a faithful account of our expedition; it is nothing, and yet agreat deal. It is sufficient to show me that I possess some influenceover Louise; that my look fascinates her, my voice affects her, my touchagitates her; for one moment I held her trembling against my heart; shedid not repulse me. It is true that by a little feminine Jesuitism, common enough, she might ascribe all this to vertigo, a sort of vertigocommon to youth and love, which has turned more heads than all theprecipices of Mount Blanc!

What a strange creature is Louise! An inexplicable mixture of acuteintelligence and virgin modesty, displaying at the same time anignorance and information never imagined. These piquant contrasts makeme admire her all the more. The day after to-morrow Madame Taverneau isgoing on business to Rouen. Louise will be alone, and I intend to repeatthe donjon scene, with improvements and deprived of the inopportuneappearance of Madame Taverneau's yellow shawl and the luckless Alfred'sgreen hunting-dress. What delicious dreams will visit me to-night in myhammock at Richeport!

My next letter will begin, I hope, with this triumphant line of theChevalier de Bertin:

 "Elle est à moi, divinités du Pinde!"

Good-bye, my dear Roger. I wish you good luck in your search. Since youhave once seen Irene, she cannot wear Gyges' ring. You may meet heragain; but if you have to make your way through six Boyars, threeMoldavians, eleven bronze statues, ten check-sellers, crush a multitudeof King Charles spaniels, upset a crowd of fruit-stands, go straight asa bullet towards your beauty; seize her by the tip of her wing, politelybut firmly, like a gendarme; for the Prince Roger de Monbert must not bethe plaything of a capricious Parisian heiress. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XIV. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES;Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

PONT DE L'ARCHE, June 18th 18--. 

I have only time to send you a line with the box of ribbons The trunkwill go to-morrow by the stage. I would have sent it before, but thechildren's boots were not done. It is impossible to get anything donenow--the storekeepers say they can't get workmen, the workmen say theycan't get employment. Blanchard will be in Paris to superintend itspacking. If you are not pleased with your things, especially the bluedress and mauve bonnet, I despair of ever satisfying you. I did not takeyour sashes to Mlle. _Vatelin_. It was Prince de Monbert's fault; inpassing along the Boulevards I saw him talking to a gentleman--I turnedinto Panorama street--he followed me, and to elude him I went into theChinese store. M. De Monbert remained outside; I bought some tea, andtelling the woman I would send for it, went out by the opposite doorwhich opens on Vivienne street. The Prince, who has been away from Parisfor ten years, was not aware of this store having two exits, so in thisway I escaped him. This hateful prince is also the cause of my returninghere. The day after that wretched evening at the Odeon, I went toinquire about my cousin. There I found that Madame de Langeac had leftFontainebleau and gone to Madame de H. 's, where they are having privatetheatricals. She returns to Paris in ten days, where she begs me to waitfor her. I also heard that M. De Monbert had had quite a scene with theporter on the same morning--insisting that he had seen me, and that hewould not be put off by lying servants any longer; his language andmanner quite shocked the household. The prospect of a visit from himfilled me with fright. I returned to my garret--Madame Taverneau wasanxiously waiting for my return, and carried me off without giving meanytime for reflection; so I am here once more. Perhaps you think thatin this rural seclusion, under the shade of these willows, I ought tofind tranquillity? Just the reverse. A new danger threatens me; I escapefrom a furious prince, to be ensnared by a delirious poet. I went awayleaving M. De Meilhan gracious, gallant, but reasonable; I return tofind him presuming, passionate, foolish. It makes me think that absenceincreases my attractiveness, and separation clothes me with new charms. 

This devotion is annoying, and I am determined to nip it in the bud; itfills me with a horrible dread that in no way resembles the charmingfear I have dreamed of. The young poet takes a serious view of theflattery I bestowed upon him only in order to discover what his friendhad written about me; he has persuaded himself that I love him, and Idespair of being able to dispel the foolish notion. 

I have uselessly assumed the furious air of an angry Minerva, themajestic deportment of the Queen of England opening Parliament, theprudish, affected behavior of a school-mistress on promenade; all thisonly incites his hopes. If it were love it might be seductive anddangerous, but it is nothing more than magnetism. . . . You may laugh, butit is surely this and nothing else; he acts as if he were under somespell of fascination; he looks at me in a malevolent way that he thinksirresistible. . . . But I find it unendurable. I shall end by franklytelling him that in point of magnetism I am no longer free . . . "that Ilove another, " as the vaudeville says, and if he asks who is this other, I shall smilingly tell him, "it is the famous disciple of Mesmer, Dr. Dupotet. "

Yesterday his foolish behavior was very near causing my death. Alarmedby an embarrassing tête-à-tête in the midst of an old castle we werevisiting, I mounted the window-sill in one of the towers to call MadameTaverneau, whom I saw at the foot of the hill; the stone on which Istood gave way, and if M. De Meilhan had not shown great presence ofmind and caught me, I would have fallen down a precipice forty feetdeep! Instant death would have been the result. Oh! how frightened Iwas! I tremble yet. My terror was so great that I would have fainted ifI had had a little more confidence; but another fear made me recoverfrom this. Fortunately I am going away from here, and this trifling willbe over. 

Yes, certainly I will accompany you to Geneva. Why can't we go as far asLake Como? What a charming trip to take, and what comfort we will enjoyin my nice carriage! You must know that my travelling-carriage is awonder; it is being entirely renovated, and directly it is finished, Iwill jump in it and fly to your arms. Of course you will ask what I amto do with a travelling-carriage--I who have never made but one journeyin my life, and that from the Marais to the Faubourg Saint Honoré? Iwill reply, that I bought this carriage because I had the opportunity;it is a chef-d'oeuvre. There never was a handsomer carriage made inLondon. It was invented--and you will soon see what a splendid inventionit is--for an immensely rich English lady who is always travelling, andwho is greatly distressed at having to sell it, but she believes herselfpursued by an audacious young lover whom she wishes to get rid of, andas he has always recognised her by her carriage, she parts with it inorder to put him off her track. She is an odd sort of woman whom theycall Lady Penock; she resembles Levassor in his English rôles; that isto say, she is a caricature. Levassor would not dare to be soridiculous. 

Good-bye, until I see you. When I think that in one month we shall betogether again, I forget all my sorrows. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XV. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR DE MEILHAN, Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure). 

PARIS, June 19th 18--. 

It is useless to slander the police; we are obliged to resort to them inour dilemmas; the police are everywhere, know everything, and areinfallible. Without the police Paris would go to ruin; they are thehidden fortification, the invisible rampart of the capital; its numerousagents are the detached forts. Fouché was the Vauban of this wonderfulsystem, and since Fouché's time, the art has been steadily approachingperfection. There is to-day, in every dark corner of the city an eyethat watches over our fifty-four gates, and an ear that hears thepulsations of all the streets, those great arteries of Paris. 

The incapacity of my own agents making me despair of discoveringanything; I went to the Polyphemus of Jerusalem street, a giant whoseever open eye watches every Ulysses. They told me in the office--Returnin three days. 

Three centuries that I had to struggle through! How many centuries Ihave lived during the last month!

The police! Why did not this luminous idea enter my mind before?

At this office of public secrets they said to me: Mlle. De Chateaudunleft Paris five days ago. On the 12th she passed the night at Sens; shethen took the route to Burgundy; changed horses at Villevallier, and onthe 14th stopped at the château of Madame de Lorgeville, seven milesfrom Avallon. 

The particularity of this information startled me. What wonderfulclock-work! What secret wheels! What intelligent mechanism! It is themachine of Marly applied to a human river. At Rome a special niche wouldhave been devoted to the goddess of Police. 

What a lesson to us! How circumspect it should make us! Our walls arediaphanous, our words are overheard; our steps are watched . . . Everything said and done reaches by secret informers and invisiblethreads the central office of Jerusalem street. It is enough to make onetremble!!!

_At the château of Mad. De Lorgeville_!

I walked along repeating this sentence to myself, with a thousandvariations: At the château of Mad. De Lorgeville. 

After a decennial absence, I know nobody in Paris--I am just as much ofa stranger as the ambassador of Siam. . . . Who knows Mad. De Lorgeville?M. De Balaincourt is the only person in Paris who can give me thedesired information--he is a living court calendar. I fly to see M. DeBalaincourt. 

This oracle answers me thus: Mad. De Lorgeville is a very beautifulwoman, between twenty-four and twenty-six years of age. She possesses amagnificent _mezzo-soprano_ voice, and twenty thousand dollars income. She learnt miniature painting from Mad. Mirbel, and took singing lessonsfrom Mad. Damoyeau. Last winter she sang that beautiful duo from Norma, with the Countess Merlin, at a charity concert. 

I requested further details. 

Madame de Lorgeville is the sister of the handsome Léon de Varèzes. 

Oh! ray of light! glimmer of sun through a dark cloud!

The handsome Léon de Varèzes! The ugly idea of troubadour beauty! A fopfashioned by his tailor, and who passes his life looking at his figurereflected in four mirrors as shiny and cold as himself!

I pressed M. De Balaincourt's hand and once again plunged into thevortex of Paris. 

If the handsome Léon were only hideous I would feel nothing butindifference towards him, but he has more sacred rights to my hatred, asyou will see. 

Three months ago this handsome Léon made a proposal of marriage to Mlle. De Chateaudun--she refused him. This is evidently a preconcerted plan;or it is a ruse. The handsome Léon had a lady friend well known byeverybody but himself, and he has deferred this marriage in order togild, after the manner of Ruolz, his last days of bachelorhood;meanwhile Mlle. De Chateaudun received her liberty, and during thistruce I have played the rôle of suitor. Either of these conjectures isprobable--both may be true--one is sufficient to bring about acatastrophe!

This fact is certain, the handsome Léon is at the waters of Ems enjoyinghis expiring hours of single-blessedness in the society of his paintedfriend, and his family are keeping Mile. De Chateaudun at the Château deLorgeville till the season at Ems is over. In a few days the handsomeLéon, on pretence of important business, will leave his Dulcinea, and, considering himself freed from an unlawful yoke, will come to theChâteau de Lorgeville to offer his innocent hand and pure homage toMile. De Chateaudun. In whatever light the matter is viewed, I am adupe--a butt! I know well that people say: "_Prince Roger is a goodfellow_" With this reputation a man is exposed to all the felinewickedness of human nature, but when once aroused "the good fellow" istransformed, and all turn pale in his presence. 

No, I can never forgive a woman who holds before me a picture of bliss, and then dashes it to the ground--she owes me this promised happiness, and if she tries to fly from me I have a right to cry "stop thief. "

Ah! Mlle. De Chateaudun, you thought you could break my heart, and leaveme nothing to cherish but the phantom of memory! Well! I promise youanother ending to your play than you looked for! We will meet again!

Stupid idiot that I was, to think of writing her an apology to vindicatemy innocent share of the scene at the Odeon! Vindication well spared!How she would have laughed at my honest candor!. . . She shall not have anopportunity of laughing! Dear Edgar, in writing these disconsolate linesI have lost the calmness that I had imposed upon myself when I began myletter. I feel that I am devoured by that internal demon that bears awoman's name in the language of love--jealousy! Yes, jealousy fills mysoul with bitterness, encircles my brow with a band of iron, and makesme feel a frenzied desire to murder some fellow-being! During my travelsI lost the tolerant manners of civilization. I have imbibed the rudecruelty of savages--my jealousy is filled with the storms and fire ofthe equator. 

What do you pale effeminate young men know of jealousy? Is not yourprofessor of jealousy the actor who dashes about on the stage with apaste-board sword?

I have studied the monster under other masters; tigers have taught mehow to manage this passion. 

Dear Edgar, once night overtook us amidst the ruins of the fort thatformerly defended the mouth of the river Caveri in Bengal. It was a darknight illumined by a single star like the lamp of the subterraneantemple of Elephanta. But this lone star was sufficient to throw lightupon the formidable duel that took place before us upon the sloping bankof the ruined fort. 

It was the season of love . . . How sweet is the sound of these words!

A tawny monster with black spots, belonging to the fair sex of her noblerace, was calmly quenching her thirst in the river Caveri--after she hadfinished drinking she squatted on her hind feet and stretched herforepaws in front of her breast--sphinx-like--and luxuriously rubbed herhead in and out among the soft leaves scattered on the riverside. 

At a little distance the two lovers watched--not with their eyes butwith their nostrils and ears, and their sharp growl was like the breathof the khamsin passing through the branches of the euphorbium and thenopal. The two monsters gradually reached the paroxysm of amorous rage;they flattened their ears, sharpened their claws, twisted their tailslike flexible steel, and emitted sparks of fire from eyes and skin. 

During this prelude the tigress stretched herself out with stoicalindifference, pretending to take no interest in the scene--as if shewere the only animal of her race in the desert. At intervals she wouldgaze with delight at the reflected image of her grace and beauty in theriver Caveri. 

A roar that seemed to burst from the breast of a giant crushed beneath arock, echoed through the solitude. One of the tigers described animmense circle in the air and then fell upon the neck of his rival. Thetwo tawny enemies stood up on their hind legs, clenching each other liketwo wrestlers, body to body, muzzle to muzzle, teeth to teeth, anduttering shrill, rattling cries that cut through the air like theclashing of steel blades. Ordinary huntsmen would have fired upon thismonstrous group. We judged it more noble to respect the powerful hate ofthis magnificent love. As usual the aggressor was the strongest; hethrew his rival to the ground, crushed him with his whole weight, torehim with his claws, and then fastening his long teeth in his victim'sthroat, laid him dead upon the grass--uttering, as he did so, a cry oftriumph that rang through the forest like the clarion of a conqueror. 

The tigress remained in the same spot, quietly licking her paw, and whenit was quite wet rubbed it over her muzzle and ears with imperturbableserenity and charming coquetry. 

This scene contained a lesson for both sexes, my dear Edgar. When naturechooses our masters she chooses wisely. 

Heaven preserve you from jealousy! I do not mean to honor by this namethat fickle, unjust, common-place sentiment that we feel when our vanityassumes the form of love. The jealousy that gnaws my heart is a nobleand legitimate passion. Not to avenge one's self is to give a premium ofencouragement to wicked deeds. The forgiveness of wrongs and injuriesputs certain men and women too much at their ease. Vengeance isnecessary for the protection of society. 

Dear Edgar, tell me of your love; fear not to wound me by a picture ofyour happiness; my heart is too sympathetic for that. Tell me the traitsthat please you most in the object of your tenderness. Let your soulexpand in her sweet smiles--revel in the intoxicating bliss of thoselong happy talks filled with the enchanting grace and music of a firstlove. 

After reading my letter, remove my gloomy picture from your mind--forgetme quietly; let not a thought of my misery mar your present happiness. 

I intend to honor the handsome Léon by devoting my personal attention tohis future fate. 

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XVI. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, St. Dominique Street (Paris). 

RICHEPORT, June 23d 18--. 

You place a confidence in the police worthy the prince you are, dearRoger; you rely upon their information with a faith that surprises andalarms me. How do you expect the police to know anything concerninghonest people? Never having watched them, being too much occupied withscoundrels, they do not know how to go about it. Spies and detectivesare generally miserable wretches, their name even is a gross insult inour language; they are acquainted with the habits and movements ofthieves, whose dens and haunts they frequent; but what means have theyof fathoming the whimsical motives of a high-born young girl? Theirforte is in making a servant drunk, bribing a porter, following acarriage or standing sentinel before a door. If Mademoiselle deChateaudun has gone away to avoid you, she will naturally suppose thatyou will endeavor to follow her. Of course, she has taken everyprecaution to preserve her incognita--changing her name, forinstance--which would be sufficient to mystify the police, who, untilapplied to by you, have had no object in watching her movements. Theproof that the police are mistaken is the exactitude of the informationthat they have given you. It is too much like the depositions ofwitnesses in a criminal trial, who say: "Two years ago, at thirty-threeminutes and five seconds after nine o'clock in the evening, I met, inthe dark, a slender man, whose features I could not distinguish, whowore olive-green pantaloons, with a brownish tinge. " I am very muchafraid that your expedition into Burgundy will be of none avail, andthat, haggard-eyed and morose, you will drop in upon a quiet familyutterly amazed at your domiciliary visit. 

My dear Prince, endeavor to recollect that you are not in India; themanners of the Sunda Isles do not prevail here, and I feared from yourletter some desperate act which would put you in the power of yourfriends, the police. In Europe we have professors of æsthetics, Sanscrit, Slavonic, dancing and fencing, but professors of jealousy arenot authorized. There is no chair in the College of France for wildbeasts; lessons expressed in roarings and in blows from savage paws dovery well for the fabulous tiger city of Java legends. If you arejealous, try to deprive your rival of the railroad grant which he wasabout to obtain, or ruin him in his electoral college by spreading thereport that, in his youth, he had written a volume of sonnets. This isconstitutional revenge which will not bring you before the bar ofjustice. The courts now-a-days are so tricky that they might give yousome trouble even for suppressing such an insipid fop as Léon deVarèzes. Tigers, whatever you may say, are bad instructors. With regardto tigers, we only tolerate cats, and then they must have velvet paws. 

These counsels of moderation addressed to you, I have profited bymyself, for, in another way, I have reached a fine degree ofexasperation. You suspect, of course, that Louise Guérin is at thebottom of it, for a woman is always at the bottom of every man'smadness. She is the leaven that ferments all our worst passions. 

Madame Taverneau set out for Rouen; I went to see Louise, my heart fullof joy and hope. I found her alone, and at first thought that theevening would be decisive, for she blushed high on seeing me. But whothe deuce can count upon women! I left her the evening before, sweet, gentle and confiding; I found her cold, stern, repelling and talking tome as if she had never seen me before. Her manner was so convincing thatnothing had passed between us, that I found it necessary to take a rapidmental survey of all the occurrences of our expedition to the Andelys toprove to myself that I was not somebody else. I may have a thousandfaults, but vanity is not among them. I rarely flatter myself, consequently I am not prone to believe that every one is thunder-struck, in the language of the writers of the past century, on beholding me. Myinterpretation of glances, smiles, tones of the voice are generallyvery faithful; I do not pass over expressions that displease me. I putthis interpretation upon Louise's conduct. I do not feel an insuperabledislike to M. Edgar de Meilhan. Sure of the meaning of my text, I actedupon it, but Louise assumed such imposing and royal airs, such haughtyand disdainful poses, that unless I resorted to violence I felt I couldobtain nothing from her. Rage, instead of love, possessed me; my handsclenched convulsively, driving the nails into my flesh. The scene wouldhave turned into a struggle. Fortunately, I reflected that suchemphasized declarations of love, with the greater part of romantic andheroic actions, were not admitted in the Code. 

I left abruptly, lest the following elegant announcement should appearin the police gazettes: "Mr. Edgar de Meilhan, landed proprietor, havingmade an attack upon Madame Louise Guérin, screen-painter, &c. "--for Ifelt the strongest desire to strangle the object of my devotion, and Ithink I should have done so had I remained ten minutes longer. 

Admire, dear Roger, the wisdom of my conduct, and endeavor to imitateit. It is more commendable to control one's passions than an army, andit is more difficult. 

My wrath was so great that I went to Mantes to see Alfred! To open thedoor of paradise and then shut it in my face, spread before me asplendid banquet and prevent me from sitting down to it, promise me loveand then offer me prudery, is an infamous, abominable and evenindelicate act. Do you know, dear Roger, that I just escaped lookinglike a goose; the rage that possessed me gave a tragic expression to myfeatures, which alone saved me from ridicule! Such things we neverforgive a woman, and Louise shall pay me yet!

I swear to you that if a woman of my own rank had acted thus towards me, I should have crushed her without mercy; but Louise's humble positionrestrained me. I feel a pity for the weak which will be my ruin; for theweak are pitiless towards the strong. 

Poor Alfred must be an excellent fellow not to have thrown me out ofthe window. I was so dull with him, so provoking, so harsh, so scoffing, that I am astonished that he could endure me for two minutes. My nerveswere in such a state of irritation that I beheaded with my whip morethan five hundred poppies along the road. I who never have committed anassault upon any foliage, whose conscience is innocent of the murder ofa single flower! For a moment I had a notion to ask a catafalque of theromantic Marquise. You may judge from that the disordered state of myfaculties and my complete moral prostration. 

At last, ashamed of abusing Alfred's hospitality in such a manner, andfeeling incapable of being anything else than irritable, cross-grainedand intractable, I returned to Richeport, to be as gloomy anddisagreeable as I pleased. 

Here, dear Roger, I pause--I take time, as the actors say; it is worthwhile. As fluently as you may read hieroglyphics, and explain on thespot the riddles of the sphinx, you can never guess what I found atRicheport, in my mother's room! A white black-bird? a black swan? acrocodile? a megalonyx? Priest John or the amorabaquin? No, somethingmore enchantingly improbable, more wildly impossible. What was it? Iwill tell you, for a hundred million guesses would never bring younearer the truth. 

Near the window, by my mother's side, sat a young woman, bending over anembroidery frame, threading a needle with red worsted. At the sound ofmy voice she raised her head and I recognised--Louise Gruérin!

At this unexpected sight, I stood stupified, like Pradon's Hippolyte. 

To see Louise Guérin quietly seated in my mother's room, was aselectrifying as if you, on going home some morning, were to find Irenede Chateaudun engaged in smoking one of your cigars. Did some strangechance, some machiavellian combination introduce Louise at Richeport? Ishall soon know. 

What a queer way to avoid men, to take up one's abode among them! Onlyprudes have such ideas. At any rate it is a gross insult to my powersof fascination. I am not such a patriarch as all that! My head stillcounts a few hairs, and I can walk very well without a cane!

What does it matter, after all? Louise lives under the same roof withme, my mother treats her in the most gracious manner, like an equal. And, indeed, one would be deceived by her; she seems more at her easehere than at Madame Taverneau's, and what would be a restraint on awoman of her class, on the contrary gives her more liberty. Her mannershave become charming, and I often ask myself if she is not the daughterof one of Madame de Meilhan's friends. With wonderful tact sheimmediately put herself in unison with her surroundings; women alone canquickly become acclimated in a higher sphere. A man badly brought upalways remains a booby. Any danseuse taken from the foot-lights of theOpera by the caprice of a great lord, can be made a fine lady. Naturehas doubtless provided for these sudden elevations of fortune bybestowing upon women that marvellous facility of passing from oneposition to another without exhibiting surprise or being thrown out oftheir element. Put Louise into a carriage having a countess's crown uponthe panel of the door, and no one would doubt her rank. Speak to her, and she would reply as if she had had the most brilliant education. Theauspicious opening of a flower transplanted into a soil that suits it, shone through Louise's whole being. My manner towards her partakes of atenderer playfulness, a more affectionate gallantry. After all, Richeport is better than Pont de l'Arche, for there is nothing likefighting on your own ground. 

Come then, my friend, and be a looker-on at the courteous tournay. Weexpect Raymond every day; we have all sorts of paradoxes to convert intotruths; your insight into such matters might assist us. _A bientôt_. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XVII. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

RICHEPORT, June 29th 18--. 

I am at Richeport, at Madame de Meilhan's house!. . . This astonishes you, . . . So it does me; you don't understand it, . . . Neither do I. The factis, that when you can't control events, the best thing to be done is tolet events control you. 

On Sunday I went to hear mass in the beautiful church at Pont del'Arche, a splendid ruin that looks like a heap of stony lacework, lovely guipure torn to pieces; while I was there a lady came in and satbeside me; it was Madame de Meilhan. I recognised her at once, havingbeen accustomed to seeing her every Sunday at mass. As it was late, andthe services were almost ended, I thought it very natural that sheshould sit by me to avoid walking the length of the aisle to reach herown pew, so I continued to read my prayers without paying any attentionto her, but she fastened her eyes upon me in such a peculiar way that I, in my turn, felt compelled to look up at her, and was startled by thealteration of her face; suddenly she tottered and fell fainting onMadame Taverneau's shoulder. She was taken out of the church, and thefresh air soon restored her to consciousness. She seemed agitated whenshe saw me near her, but the interest I showed in her sickness seemed toreassure her; she gracefully thanked me for my kind attention, and thenlooked at me in a way that was very embarrassing. I invited her toreturn with me to Madame Taverneau's and rest herself; she accepted theoffer, and Madame Taverneau carried her off with great pomp. ThereMadame de Meilhan explained how she had walked alone from Richeport inspite of the excessive heat, at the risk of making herself ill, becauseher son had taken the coachman and horses and left home suddenly thatmorning without saying where he was going. As she said this she lookedat me significantly. I bore these questioning looks with proudcalmness. I must tell you that the evening before, M de Meilhan hadcalled on me during the absence of Madame Taverneau and her husband. Thedanger of the situation inspired me. I treated him with such coldness, Ireached a degree of dignity so magnificent that the great poet finallycomprehended there are some glaciers inaccessible, even to him. He leftme, furious and disconsolate, but I do him the justice to say that hewas more disconsolate than furious. This real sorrow made me thinkdeeply. If he loved me seriously, how culpable was my conduct! I hadbeen too coquettish towards him; he could not know that this coquetrywas only a ruse; that while appearing to be so devoted to him my wholemind was filled with another. Sincere love should always be respected;one is not compelled to share it, but then one has no right to insultit. 

The uneasiness of Madame de Meilhan; her conduct towards me--for I wascertain she had purposely come late to mass and taken a seat by me forthe purpose of speaking to me and finding out what sort of a person Iwas--the uneasiness of this devoted mother was to me a language moreconvincing of the sincerity of her son's sentiments than all theprotestations of love he could have uttered in years. A mother's anxietyis an unmistakable symptom; it is more significant than all others. Thejealousy of a rival is not so certain an indication; distrustful lovemay be deceived, but maternal instinct _never_ is. Now, to induce awoman of Madame de Meilhan's spirit and character to come agitated andtrembling to see me, . . . Why, I can say it without vanity, her son mustbe madly in love, and she wished at all costs either to destroy or curethis fatal passion that made him so unhappy. 

When she arose to leave, I asked permission to walk back with her toRicheport, as she was not well enough to go so far alone; she eagerlyaccepted my offer, and as we went along, conversing upon indifferentsubjects, her uneasiness gradually disappeared; our conversation seemedto relieve her mind of its heavy burden. 

It happened that truth spoke for itself, as it always does, butunfortunately is not always listened to. By my manners, the tone of myvoice, my respectful but dignified politeness--which in no way resembledMad. Taverneau's servile and obsequious eagerness to please, her humbledeference being that of an inferior to a superior, whilst mine wasnothing more than that due to an old lady from a young one--by theseshades insignificant to the generality of people, but all revealing toan experienced eye, Mad. De Meilhan at once divined everything, that isto say, that I was her equal in rank, education and nobility of soul;she knew it, she felt it. This fact admitted, one thing remaineduncertain; why had I fallen from my rank in society? Was it throughmisfortune or error? This was the question she was asking herself. 

I knew enough of her projects for the future, her ambition as a mother, to decide which of the two suppositions would alarm her most. If I werea light, trifling woman, as she every now and then seemed to hope, herson was merely engaged in a flirtation that would have no dangerousresult; if on the contrary I was an honorable woman, which she evidentlyfeared might be the case, her son's future was ruined, and she trembledfor the consequences of this serious passion. Her perplexity amused me. The country around us was superb, and as we walked along I went intoecstasies over the beauty of the scenery and the lovely tints of thesky; she would smile and think: "She is only an artist, anadventuress--I am saved; she will merely be Edgar's friend, and keep himall the winter at Richeport. " Alas! it is a great pity that she is notrich enough to spend the winter in Paris with Edgar; she seems miserableat being separated from him for months at a time. 

At a few yards from the châteaux a group of pretty children chasing apoor donkey around a little island attracted my attention. 

"That island formerly belonged to the Richeport estate, " said Mad. DeMeilhan; "so did those large meadows you see down below; the height ofmy ambition is to buy them back, but to do this Edgar must marry anheiress. "

This word troubled me, and Mad. De Meilhan seemed annoyed. She evidentlythought: "She is an honest woman, and wants to marry Edgar, I fear, " Itook no notice of her sudden coldness of manner, but thought to myself:How delightful it would be to carry out these ambitious plans, andgratify every wish of this woman's heart! I have but to utter one word, and not only would she have this island and these meadows, but she wouldpossess all this beautiful forest. Oh! how sweet would it be to feelthat you are a small Providence on earth, able to penetrate andinstantly gratify the secret wishes of people you like! Valentine, Ibegin to distrust myself; a temptation like this is too dangerous for anature like mine; I feel like saying to this noble, impoverished lady:here, take these meadows, woods and islands that you so tenderly sighfor--I could also say to this despairing young poet: here, take thiswoman that you so madly love, marry her and be happy . . . Withoutremembering that this woman is myself; without stopping to ask if thishappiness I promise him will add to my own. 

Generosity is to me dangerously attractive! How I would love to make thefortune of a noble poet! I am jealous of these foreigners who havelately given us such lessons in generosity. I would be so happy inbestowing a brilliant future upon one who chose and loved me in myobscurity, but to do this love is necessary, and my heart isbroken--dead! I have no love to give. 

Then again, M. De Meilhan has so much originality of character, and Iadmit only originality of mind. He puts his horse in his chamber, whichis an original idea, to be sure; but I think horses had better be keptin the stable, where they would certainly be more comfortable. And thesedreadful poets are such positive beings! Poets are not poetical, my dear. . . Edgar has become romantic since he has been in love with me, but Ithink it is an hypocrisy, and I mistrust his love. 

Edgar is undeniably a talented, superior man, and captivating, as thebeautiful Marquise de R. Has proved; but I fail to recognise in his lovethe ideal I dreamed of. It is not the expression of an eye that headmires, it is the fine shape of the lids, limpid pupils; it is not theingenuous grace of a smile that pleases him, it is the regularity of thelines, the crimson of the lips; to him beauty of soul adds no charm to alovely face. Therefore, this love that a word of mine can renderlegitimate, frightens me as if it were a guilty passion; it makes meuneasy and timid. I know you will ridicule me when I say that upon methis passionate poet has the same effect as women abounding inimagination and originality of mind have upon men, who admire but nevermarry them. He has none of that affectionate gravity so necessary in ahusband. On every subject our ideas differ; this different way of seeingthings would cause endless disputes between us, or what is sadder yet, mutual sacrifices. Everybody adores the charming Edgar, I say Edgar, forit is by this name I daily hear him praised. I wish I could love himtoo! He was astonished to find me at his mother's house yesterday. Sincemy first visit to Richeport, Mad. De Meilhan would not allow a singleday to pass without my seeing her; each day she contrived a new pretextto attract me; a piece of tapestry work to be designed, a view of theAbbey to be painted, a new book to read aloud or some music to try; theother evening it was raining torrents when I was about leaving and sheinsisted upon my staying all night; now she wishes me to remain for herbirthday, which is on the 5th; she continues to watch me closely. Mad. Taverneau has been questioned--the mute, Blanchard, has been tortured. . . Mad. Taverneau replied that she had known me for three years andthat during this time I had never ceased to mourn for the late AlbertGuérin; in her zeal she added that he was a very deserving young man! Mygood Blanchard contented herself with saying that I was worth more thanMad. De Meilhan and all of her family put together. While they study meI study them. There is no danger in my remaining at Richeport. Edgarrespects his mother--she watches over me. If necessary, I will tell hereverything. . . . She speaks kindly of Mlle. De Chateaudun--she defendsme. . . . How I laughed to myself this morning! I heard that M. De Monberthad secretly applied to the police to discover my whereabouts and thepolice sent him to join me at Burgundy!. . . What could have made any onethink I was there? At whose house will he go to seek me? and whom willhe find instead of me? However, I may be there before long if my cousinwill travel by way of Macon. She will not be ready to start before nextweek. 

Oh! I am so anxious to see you again! Do not go to Geneva without me. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XVIII. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR EDGAR DE MEILHAN, Pont de l'Arche (Eure). 

PARIS, July 2d 18--. 

Do you believe, my dear Edgar, that it is easy to live when the age oflove is passed? Verily one must be able to love his whole lifetime if hewishes to live an enchanted life, and die a painless death. What aseductive game! what unexpected luck! How many moments delightfullyemployed! Each day has its particular history; at night we delight intelling it over to ourselves, and indulge in the wildest conjectures asto what will be the events of each to-morrow. The reality of to-daydefeats the anticipations of yesterday. We hope one moment and despairthe next--now dejected, now elated. We alternate between death andblissful life. 

The other morning at nine o'clock we stopped at the stage-office at Sensfor ten minutes. I went into the hotel and questioned everybody, andfound they had seen many young ladies of the age, figure and beauty ofMlle. De Chateaudun. 

Happy people they must be!

However, I only asked all these questions to amuse myself during the tenminutes' relay. My mind was at rest--for the police are infallible;everything will be explained at the Château de Lorgeville. I stopped mycarriage some yards from the gate, got out and walked up the longavenue, being concealed by the large trees through which I caughtglimpses of the château. 

It was a large symmetrical building--a stone quadrangle, heavily toppedoff by a dark slate roof, and a dejected-looking weathercock thatrebelled against the wind and declined to move. 

All the windows in the front of the house were tear-stained at the baseby the winter rains. 

A modern entrance, with double flights of steps decorated by four vasescontaining four dead aloe-stems buried in straw, betrayed the cultivatedtaste of the handsome Léon. 

I expected to see the shadow of a living being. . . . No human outlinebroke the tranquil shade of the trees. 

An accursed dog, man's worst enemy, barked furiously, and made violentefforts to break his rope and fly at me. . . . I hope he is tied with agordian knot if he wishes to see the setting sun!

Finally a gardener enjoying a sinecure came to enliven this landscapewithout a garden; he strolled down the avenue with the nonchalance of aworkman paid by the handsome Léon. 

I am able to distinguish among the gravest faces those that can relaxinto a smile at the sight of gold. The gardener passed before me, andafter he had bestowed upon me the expected smile, I said to him:

"Is this Mad. De Lorgeville's château?"

He made an affirmative sign. Once more I bowed to the genius of theJerusalem street goddess. 

I said to the gardener in a solemn tone: "Here is a letter of thegreatest importance; you must hand it to Mlle. De Chateaudun when she isalone. " I then showed him my purse and said: "After that, this money isyours. "

"The sweet young lady!" said the gardener, walking off towards thechâteau with the gold in one hand, the letter in the other, and thepurse in his eye--"The good young lady! it is a long time since she hasreceived a love-letter. "

I said to myself, The handsome Léon does not indulge inletter-writing--he has a good reason for that. 

The following is the letter carried by the gardener to the château:--

"Mademoiselle, --

"Desperate situations justify desperate measures. I am willing tobelieve that I am still, by your desire, undergoing a terrible ordeal, but I judge myself sufficiently tried. 

"I am ready for everything except the misery of losing you. My last saneidea is uttered in this warning. 

"I must see you; I must speak to you. 

"Do not refuse me a few moments' conversation--Mademoiselle, in the nameof Heaven save me! save yourself!

"There is in the neighborhood of the château some farmhouse, or shadygrove. Name any spot where I can meet you in an hour. I am awaiting youranswer. . . . After an hour has passed I will wait for nothing more in thisworld. "

The gardener walked along with the nonchalance of the man of theGeorgics, as if meditating upon the sum of happiness contained in apiece of gold. I looked after him with that resignation we feel as theend of a great trial approaches. 

He was soon lost to view, and in the distance I heard a door open andshut. 

In a few minutes Mlle. Chateaudun would be reading my letter. I read itover in my own mind, and rapidly conjectured the impression each wordwould make upon her heart. 

Through the thick foliage where I was concealed, I had a confused viewof one wing of the château; the wall appeared to be covered with greentapestry torn in a thousand places. I could distinguish nothing clearlyat a distance of twenty yards. Finally I saw approaching a gracefulfigure clad in white--and through the trees I caught sight of a bluescarf--a muslin dress and blue scarf--nothing more, and yet my heartstood still! My sensations at this moment are beyond analyzation. I feltan emotion that a man in love will comprehend at once. . . . A muslin dressfluttering under the trees where the fountains ripple and the birdssing! Is there a more thrilling sight?

I stood with one foot forward on the gravel-path, and with folded armsand bowed head I waited. I saw the scarf fringe before seeing the face. I looked up, and there stood before me a lovely woman . . . But it was notIrene!. . . 

It was Mad. De Lorgeville. She knew me and I recognised her, havingknown her before her marriage. She still possessed the beauty of hergirlhood, and marriage had perfected her loveliness by adorning her withthat fascinating grace that is wanting even in Raphael's madonnas. 

A peal of merry laughter rooted me to the spot and changed the currentof my ideas. The lady was seized with such a fit of gayety that shecould scarcely speak, but managed to gasp out my name and title inbroken syllables. Like a great many men, I can stand much from womenthat I am not in love with. . . . I stood with arms crossed and hat off, waiting for an explanation of this foolish reception. After severalattempts, Mad. De Lorgeville succeeded in making her little speech. After this storm of laughter there was still a ripple through which Icould distinguish the following words, although I did not understandthem:--

"Excuse me, monsieur, . . . But if you knew . . . When you see . . . But shemust not see my foolish merriment, . . . She cherishes the fancy that sheis still young, . . . Like all women who are no longer so, . . . Give meyour arm, . . . We were at table . . . We always keep a seat for a chancevisitor . . . One does not often meet with an adventure like this exceptin novels. . . . "

I made an effort to assume that calmness and boldness that saved my lifethe day I was made prisoner on the inhospitable coast of Borneo, and theold Arab king accused me of having attempted the traffic of gold dust--acapital crime--and said to the fair young châtelaine:

"Madame, there is not much to amuse one in the country; gayety is aprecious thing; it cannot be bought; happy is he who gives it. Icongratulate myself upon being able to present it to you. Can you notgive me back half of it, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur, come and take it yourself, " said Madame de Lorgeville;"but you must use it with discretion before witnesses. "

"I can assure you, madame, that I have not come to your château insearch of gayety. Allow me to escort you to the door and then retire. "

"You are my prisoner, monsieur, and I shall not grant your request. Thearrival of the Prince de Monbert is a piece of good fortune. My husbandand I will not be ungrateful to the good genius that brought you here. We shall keep you. "

"One moment, madame, " said I, stopping in front of the château; "Iaccept the happiness of being retained by you; but will you be goodenough to name the persons I am to meet here?"

"They are all friends of M. De Monbert. "

"Friends are the very people I dread, madame. "

"But they are all women. "

"Women I dread most of all. "

"Ah! monsieur, it is quite evident that you have been among savages forten years. "

"Savages are the only beings I am not afraid of!"

"Alas! monsieur, I have nothing in that line to offer you. This eveningI can show you some neighbors who resemble the tribes of the Tortoise ofthe Great Serpent--these are the only natives I can dispose of. Atpresent you will only see my husband, two ladies who are almost widows, and a young lady" . . . Here Mad. De Lorgeville was seized with a new fitof laughter . . . Finally she continued: "A young lady whose name you willknow later. "

"I know it already, madame. "

"Perhaps you do . . . To-morrow our company will be increased by twopersons, my brother. " . . . 

"The handsome Léon!"

"Ah you know him!. . . My brother Léon and his wife. " . . . 

I started so violently that I dropped Mad. De Lorgeville's arm--shelooked frightened, and I said in a painfully constrained voice:

"And his wife. . . . Mad. De Varèzes?. . . Ah! I did not know that M. DeVarèzes was married. "

"My brother was married a month ago, " said Mad. Lorgeville. "He marriedMlle. De Bligny. "

"Are you certain of that, madame?"

This question was asked in a voice and accompanied by an expression ofcountenance that would have made a painter or musician desperate, evenwere they Rossini or Delacroix. 

Mad. De Lorgeville, alarmed a second time by my excited manner, lookedat me with commiseration, as if she thought me crazy! Certainly neithermy face nor manner indicated sanity. 

"You ask if I am sure my brother is married!" said Mad. De Lorgevillewith petrified astonishment. "You are surely jesting?"

"Yes, madame, yes, " said I, with an exuberance of gayety, "it is ajoke. . . . I understand it all . . . I comprehend everything . . . That is tosay--I understand nothing . . . But your brother, the excellent Léon deVarèzes, is married--that is all I wanted to know. . . . What a veryhandsome young man he is!. . . I suppose, madame, that you opened my notewithout reading the address . . . Or did Mlle. De Chateaudun send you hereto meet me?"

"Mlle. De Chateaudun is not here . . . Excuse this silly laughter . . . Thegardener gave your note to one of my guests . . . A young lady ofsixty-five summers. . . . Who by the strangest coincidence is named Mlle. De Chantverdun. . . . Now you can account for my amusement . . . Mlle. DeChantverdun is a canoness. She read your letter, and wished for once inher life to enjoy uttering a shriek of alarm and faint at the sight of alove letter; so come monsieur, " said Mad. De Lorgeville, smilinglyleading me towards the house, "come and make your excuses to Mlle. DeChantverdun, who has recovered her senses and sent me to herrendezvous. "

Involuntarily, my dear Edgar, I indulged in this short monologue afterthe manner of the old romancers: O tender love! passion full ofintoxication and torment! love that kills and resuscitates! What aterrible vacuum thou must leave in life, when age exiles thee from ourheart! Which means that I was resuscitated by Mad. De Lorgeville's lastwords!

In a few minutes I was bowing with a moderate degree of respect beforeMlle. De Chantverdun, and making her such adroit excuses that she wasenchanted with me. Happiness had restored my presence of mind--mydeferential manner and apologies delighted the poor old-young lady. Imade her believe that this mistake was entirely owing to a similarity ofnames, and that the age of Mile. De Chantverdun was an additional pointof resemblance. 

This distinction was difficult to manage in its exquisite delicacy; myskilfulness won the approbation of Mad. De Lorgeville. 

We passed a charming afternoon. I had recovered my gayety that troublehad almost destroyed, and enjoyed myself so much that sunset found mestill at the château. Dear Edgar, this time I am not mistaken in myconjectures. Mile, de Chateaudun is imposing a trying ordeal upon me--Iam more convinced of it than ever; it is the expiation before enteringParadise. Hasten your love affairs and prepare for marriage--we willhave a double wedding, and we can introduce our wives on the same day. This would be the crowning of my dearest hopes--a fitting seal to ourlife-long friendship!

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XIX. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

RICHEPORT, July 6th 18--. 

It is he! Valentine, it is he! I at once recognised him, and herecognised me! And our future lives were given to each other in one ofthose looks that decide a life. What a day! how agitated I still am! Myhand trembles, my heart beats so violently that I can scarcely write. . . . It is one o'clock; I did not close my eyes last night and I cannot sleepto-night. I am so excited, my mind so foolishly disturbed, that sleep isa state I no longer comprehend; I feel as if I could never sleep again. Many hours will have to pass before I can extinguish this fire thatburns my eyes, stop this whirl of thoughts rushing through my brain; tosleep, I must forget, and never, never can I forget his name, his voice, his face! My dear Valentine, how I wished for you to-day! How proud Iwould have been to prove to you the realization of all my dreams andpresentiments!

Ah! I knew I was right; such implicit faith could not be an error; I wasconvinced that there existed on earth a being created for me, who wouldsome day possess and govern my heart! A being who had always possessedmy love, who sought me, and called upon me to respond to his love; andthat we would end by meeting and loving in spite of all obstacles. Yes, often I felt myself called by some superior power. My soul would leaveme and travel far away in response to some mysterious command. Where didit go? Then I was ignorant, now I know--it went to Italy, in answer tothe gentle voice, to the behest of Raymond! I was laughed at for whatwas called my romantic idea, and I tried to ridicule it myself. I foughtagainst this fantasy. Alas! I fought so valiantly against it that it wasalmost destroyed. Oh! I shudder when I think of it. . . . A few momentsmore . . . And I would have been irrevocably engaged; I would no longerhave been worthy of this love for which I had kept myselfirreproachable, in spite of all the temptations of misery, all thedangers of isolation, and the long-hoped-for day of blissful meeting, would have been the day of eternal farewell! This averted misfortunefrightened me as if it were still menacing. Poor Roger! I heartilypardon him now; more than that, I thank him for having so quicklydisenchanted me. 

Edgar!. . . Edgar!. . . I hate him when I remember that I tried to love him;but no, no, there never was anything like love between us! Heavens! whata difference!. . . And yet the one of whom I speak with such enthusiasm. . . I saw yesterday for the first time . . . I know him not . . . I know himnot . . . And yet I love him!. . . Valentine, what will you think of me?

This most important day of my life opened in the ordinary way; nothingforeshadowed the great event that was to decide my fate, that was tothrow so much light upon the dark doubts of my poor heart. Thisbrilliant sun suddenly burst upon me unheralded by any precursory ray. 

Some new guests were expected; a relative of Madame de Meilhan, and afriend of Edgar, whom they call Don Quixote. This struck me as being apeculiar nickname, but I did not ask its origin. Like all persons ofimagination, I have no curiosity; I at once find a reason foreverything; I prefer imagining to asking the wherefore of things; Iprefer suppositions to information. Therefore I did not inquire why thisfriend was honored with the name of Don Quixote. I explained it tomyself in this wise: A tall, thin young man, resembling the Chevalier dela Mancha, and who perhaps had dressed himself like Don Quixote at thecarnival, and the name of his disguise had clung to him ever since; Ifancied a silly, awkward youth, with an ugly yellow face, a sort ofsolemn jumping-jack, and I confess to no desire to make hisacquaintance. He disturbed me in one respect, but I was quicklyreassured. I am always afraid of being recognised by visitors at thechâteau, and have to exercise a great deal of ingenuity to find out ifwe have ever met. Before appearing before them, I inquire if they arefashionable people, spent last winter in Paris, &c. ? I am told DonQuixote is almost a savage; he travels all the time so as to sustain hischaracter as knight-errant, and that he spent last winter in Rome. . . . This quieted my fears . . . I did not appear in society until last winter, so Don Quixote never saw me; knowing we could meet without thepossibility of recognition, I dismissed him from my mind. 

Yesterday, at three o'clock, Madame de Meilhan and her son went to thedepot to meet their guests. I was standing at the front door when theydrove off, and Madame de Meilhan called out to me: "My dear MadameGuérin, I recommend my bouquets to you; pray spare me the eternal_soucis_ with which the cruel Etienne insists upon filling my rooms; nowI rely upon you for relief. "

I smiled at this pun as if I had never heard it before, and promised tosuperintend the arrangement of the flowers. I went into the garden andfound Etienne gathering _soucis_, more _soucis_, nothing but _soucis_. Iglanced at his flower-beds, and at once understood the cause of hispredilection for this dreadful flower; it was the only kind that deignedto bloom in his melancholy garden: This is the secret of manyinexplicable preferences. 

I thought with horror that Madame de Meilhan would continue to be a preyto _soucis_ if I did not come to her rescue, so I said: "Etienne, what apity to cull them all! they are so effective in a garden; let us go lookfor some other flowers--it is a shame to ruin your beautiful beds!" Theflattered Stephen eagerly followed me to a corner of the garden where Ihad admired some superb catalpas. He gathered branches of them, withwhich I filled the Japanese vases on the mantel, and ornamented thecorners of the parlor, thus converting it into a flowery grove. I alsoarranged some Bengal roses and dahlias that had escaped Etienne'sculture, and with the addition of some asters and a very few _soucis_ Imust confess, I was charmed with the result of my labors. But I wantedsome delicate flowers for the pretty vase on the centre table, andremembering that an old florist, a friend of Madame Taverneau and oneof my professed admirers, lived about a mile from the château, Idetermined to walk over and describe to him the dreadful condition ofMadame de Meilhan, and appeal to him for assistance. Fortunately I foundhim in his green-house, and delighted him by repeating the pun aboutfilling the house with _soucis_. Provincials have a singular taste forpuns; I never make them, and only repeat them because I love to please. The old man was fascinated, and rewarded my flattery by making me up amagnificent bouquet of rare, unknown, nameless, exquisite flowers thatcould be found nowhere else; my bouquet was worth a fortune, and whatfortune ever exhaled such perfume? I started off triumphant. I tell youall this to show how calm and little inclined I was to romance on thatmorning. 

I walked rapidly, for we can hardly help running when in an open fieldand pursued by the arrows of the sun; we run till we are breathless, tofind shelter beneath some friendly tree. 

I had crossed a large field that separates the property of the floristfrom Madame de Meilhan's, and entered the park by a little gate; a fewsteps off a fountain rippled among the rocks--a basin surrounded byshells received its waters. This basin had originally been pretentiouslyornamented, but time and vegetation had greatly improved these effortsof bad taste. The roots of a grand weeping willow had pitilesslyunmasked the imposture of these artificial rocks, that is, they havedestroyed their skilful masonry; these rocks, built at great expense onthe shore, have gradually fallen into the very middle of the water, where they have become naturalized; some serve as vases to clusters ofbeautiful iris, others serve as resting-places for the tame deer thatrun about the park and drink at the stream; aquatic plants, reeds andentwined convolvulus have invaded the rest; all the pretentious work ofthe artist is now concealed; which proves the vanity of the proudefforts of man. God permits his creatures to cultivate ugliness in theircities only; in his own beautiful fields he quickly destroys theirmiserable attempts. Vainly, under pretext of a fountain, do they heap upin the woods and valleys masonry upon masonry, rocks upon rocks; vainlydo they lavish money upon their gingerbread work about the limpidbrooks; the water-nymph smilingly watches their labor, and then in hercapricious play amuses herself by changing their hideous productionsinto charming structures; their den of a farmer-general into a poet'snest; and to effect this miracle only three things are necessary--threethings that cost nothing, and which we daily trample underfoot--flowers, grass and pebbles. . . . Valentine, I know I have beentalking too long about this little lake, but I have an excuse: I love itmuch! You shall soon know why. . . . 

I heard the purling of the water, and could not resist the seductivefreshness of its voice; I leaned over the rocks of the fountain, tookoff my glove and caught in the hollow of my hand the sparkling waterthat fell from the cascade, and eagerly drank it. As I was intoxicatingmyself with this innocent beverage, I heard a footstep on the path; Icontinued to drink without disturbing myself, until the following wordsmade me raise my head:

"Excuse me, _mademoiselle_, but can you direct me where to find Mad. DeMeilhan?"

He called me _Mademoiselle_, so I must be recognised; the idea made meturn pale; I looked with alarm at the young man who uttered these words, I had never seen him before, but he might have seen me and would betrayme. I was so disconcerted that I dropped half of my flowers in thewater; the current was rapidly whirling them off among the crevices ofthe rocks, when he jumped lightly from stone to stone, and rescuing thefugitive flowers, laid them all carefully by the others on the side ofthe fountain, bowed respectfully and retraced his steps down the walkwithout renewing his unanswered question. I was, without knowing why, completely reassured; there was in his look such high-toned loyalty, inhis manner such perfect distinction, and a sort of precaution sodelicately mysterious, that I felt confidence in him. I thought, even ifhe does know my name it will make no difference--for he would nevermention having met me--my secret is safe with a man of his character!You need not laugh at me for prematurely deciding upon hischaracter, . . . For my surmises proved correct!

The dinner hour was drawing near, and I hurried back to the château todress. I was compelled, in spite of myself, to look attractive, onaccount of having to put on a lovely dress that the treacherousBlanchard had spread out on the bed with the determination that I shouldwear it; protesting that it was a blessed thing she had brought thisone, as there was not another one fit for me to appear in before Mad. DeMeilhan's guests. It was an India muslin trimmed with twelve littleflounces edged with exquisite Valenciennes lace; the waist was made ofalternate tucks and insertion, and trimmed with lace to match the skirt. This dress was unsuitable to the humble Madame Guérin--it would beimprudent to appear in it. How indignant and angry I was with poorBlanchard! I scolded her all the time she was assisting me to put it on!Oh! since then how sincerely have I forgiven her! She had brought me afashionable sash to wear with the dress, but I resisted the temptation, and casting aside the elegant ribbon, I put on an old lilac belt anddescended to the parlor where the company were assembled. 

The first person I saw, on entering the room, was the young man I hadmet by the fountain. His presence disconcerted me. Mad. De Meilhanrelieved my embarrassment by saying: "Ah! here you are! we were justspeaking of you. I wish to introduce to you my dear Don Quixote, " Iturned my head towards the other end of the room where Edgar was talkingto several persons, thinking that Don Quixote was one of the number; butMad. De Meilhan introduced the young man of the fountain, calling him M. De Villiers: he was Don Quixote. 

He addressed some polite speech to me, but this time he called memadame, and in uttering this word there was a tone of sadness thatdeeply touched me, and the earnest look with which he regarded me I cannever forget--it seemed to say, I know your history, I know you areunhappy, I know this unhappiness is unjustly inflicted upon you, and youarouse my tenderest sympathy. I assure you, my dear Valentine, that hislook expressed all this, and much more that I refrain from telling you, because I know you will laugh at me. 

Madame de Meilhan having joined us, he went over to Edgar. 

"What do you think of her?" asked Edgar, who did not know that I waslistening. 

"Very beautiful. "

"She is a companion, engaged by my mother to stay here until I marry. "

The hidden meaning of this jesting speech seemed to disgust M. DeVilliers; he cast upon his friend a severe and scornful look thatclearly said: You conceited puppy! I think, but am not certain, thislook also signified: Would-be Lovelace! Provincial Don Juan, &c. 

At dinner I was placed opposite him, and all during the meal I waswondering why this handsome, elegant, distinguished-looking young manshould be nicknamed Don Quixote. Thoughtful observation solved theenigma. Don Quixote was ridiculed for two things: being very ugly andbeing too generous. And I confess I felt myself immediately fascinatedby his captivating characteristics. 

After dinner we were on the terrace, when he approached me and said witha smile:

"I am distressed, madame, to think that without knowing you, I must havemade a disagreeable impression. "

"I confess that you startled me. "

"How pale you turned!. . . Perhaps you were expecting some one!" . . . Heasked this question with a troubled look and such charming anxiety thatI answered quickly--too quickly, perhaps:

"No, monsieur, I did not expect any one. "

"You saw me coming up the walk?"

"Yes, I saw you coming. "

"But was there any reason why I should have caused you this suddenfright!. . . Some resemblance, perhaps?--no?--It is strange . . . I ampuzzled. "

"And I am also very much puzzled, monsieur. "

"About me!. . . What happiness!"

"I wish to know why you are called Don Quixote?"

"Ah! you embarrass me by asking for my great secret, Madame, but I willconfide it to you, since you are kind enough to be interested in me. Iam called Don Quixote because I am a kind of a fool, an original, anenthusiastic admirer of all noble and holy things, a dreamer of nobledeeds, a defender of the oppressed, a slayer of egotists; because Ibelieve in all religions, even the religion of love. I think that a manought to respect himself out of respect to the woman who loves him; thathe should constantly think of her with devotion, avoid doing anythingthat could displease her, and be always, even in her absence, courteous, pleasing, amiable, I would even say _loveable_, if the word wereadmissible; a man who is beloved is, according to my ridiculous ideas, asort of dignitary; he should thenceforth behave as if he were an idol, and deify himself as much as possible. I also have my patrioticreligion; I love my country like an old member of the National Guard. . . . My friends say I am a real Vaudeville Frenchman. I reply that it isbetter to be a real Vaudeville Frenchman than an imitation of Englishjockeys, as they are; they call me knight-errant because I reprove themfor speaking coarsely of women. I advise them to keep silent and concealtheir misdeeds. I tell them that their boasted preferences only provetheir blindness and bad taste; that I am more fortunate than they; allthe women of my acquaintance are good and perfect, and my greatestdesire in life is to be worthy of their friendship. I am called DonQuixote because I love glory and all those who have the ambition to seekit; because in my eyes there is nothing true but the hopeful future, aswe are deceived at every step we take in the present. Because Iunderstand inexplicable disinterestedness, generous folly; because I canunderstand how one can live for an idea and die for a word; I cansympathize with all who struggle and suffer for a cherished belief;because I have the courage to turn my back upon those whom I despise andam eccentric enough to always speak the truth; I assert that nobody isworth the hypocrisy of a falsehood; because I am an incorrigible, systematic, insatiable dupe; I prefer going astray, making a mistake bydoing a good deed, rather than being always distrustful and suspicious;while I see evil I believe in good; doubtless the evil predominates anddaily increases, but then it is cultivated, and if the same cultivationwere bestowed upon the good perfection would be attained. Finally, madame, and this is my supreme folly, I believe in happiness and seek itwith credulous hope; I believe that the purest joys are those which aremost dearly bought; but I am ready for any sacrifice, and wouldwillingly give my life for an hour of this sublime joy that I have solong dreamed of and still hope to possess. . . . Now you know why I amcalled Don Quixote. To be a knight-errant in the present day is ratherdifficult; a certain amount of courage is necessary to dare to say tounbelievers: I believe; to egotists, I love; to materialists, I dream;it requires more than courage, it requires audacity and insolence. Yes, one must commence by appearing aggressive in order to have the right toappear generous. If I were merely loyal and charitable, my opinionswould not be supported; instead of being called _Don Quixote_, I wouldbe called _Grandison_ . . . And I would be a ruined man! Thus I hasten topolish my armor and attack the insolent with insolence, the scofferswith scoffing; I defend my enthusiasm with irony; like the eagle, I letmy claws grow in order to defend my wings. " . . . Here he stopped. . . . "Heavens!" he exclaimed, "how could I compare myself to an eagle; I begyour pardon, madame, for this presumptuous comparison. . . . You see towhat flights your indulgence leads me" . . . And he laughed at his ownenthusiasm, . . . But I did not laugh, my feelings were too deeplystirred. 

Valentine, what I repeat to you is very different from his way of sayingit. What eloquence in his noble words, his tones of voice, his sparklingeyes! His generous sentiments, so long restrained, were poured forthwith fire; he was happy at finding himself at last understood, at beingable for once in his life to see appreciated the divine treasures ofhis heart, to be able to impart all his pet ideas without seeing themjeered at and their name insulted! Sympathy inspired him with confidencein me. With delight I recognised myself in his own description. I sawwith pride, in his profound convictions, his strong and holy truths, thepoetical beliefs of my youth, that have always been treated by every oneelse as fictions, and foolish illusions; he carried me back to the happydays of my early life, by repeating to me, like an echo of the past, those noble words that are no longer heard in the present--those nobleprecepts--those beautiful refrains of chivalry in which my infancy wascradled. . . . As I listened I said to myself: how my mother would haveloved him! and this thought made my eyes fill with tears. Ah! never, never did such an idea cross my mind when I was with Edgar, or nearRoger. . . . Now you must acknowledge, my dear Valentine, that I am rightwhen I say that: It is he! It is he!

We had been absorbed an hour in these confidential reveries, forgettingthe persons around us, the place we were in, who we were ourselves, andthe whole world!

The universe had disappeared, leaving us only the delicate perfume ofthe orange blossoms around us, and the soft light of the stars peepingforth from the sky above us. 

We returned to the parlor and I was seated near the centre-table, whenEdgar came up to me and said:

"What is the matter with you this evening? You seem depressed; are younot well?"

"I have a slight cold. "

"What a tiresome general--he continued--he monopolizes all my evening, . . . A tiresome hero is _so_ hard to entertain!"

I forgot to tell you we had a general to dinner. 

"Raymond, come here . . . It is your turn to keep the warrior awake. " . . . M. De Villiers approached the table and began to examine the bouquet Ihad brought. "Ah! I recognise these flowers!" he looked at me and Iblushed. "I do too, " said Edgar, without taking in the true sense of thewords, and he pointed to the prettiest flowers in the bouquet, andsaid: "these are the flowers of the _pelargonium diadematum coccineum_. "I exclaimed at the dreadful name. M. De Villiers repeated: "_Pelargoniumdiadematum coccineum_!" in an undertone, with a most fascinating smile, and said: "Oh! I did not mean that!" . . . I could not help looking at himand smiling in complicity; now why should Edgar be so learned?

I suppose you think it very childish to write you these particulars, butthe most trifling details of this day are precious to me, and I mustconfide them to some one. Towards midnight we separated, and I rejoicedat being alone with my happiness. The emotion I felt was so lively thatI hastened to carry it far away from everybody, even from him, itsauthor. I wished for solitude that I might ask myself what had causedthis agitation--nothing of importance had occurred this day, no word ofengagement for the future had been made, and yet my whole life wore adifferent aspect . . . My usually calm heart was throbbing violently--mymind always so uneasy was settled; who had thus changed my fate?. . . Astranger . . . And what had he done to merit this sudden preference? Hehad picked up some flowers . . . But this stranger wore on his brow theaureola of the dreamed-of ideal, his musical voice had the imperativeaccent of a master, and from the first moment he looked at me, thereexisted between us that mysterious affinity of fraternal instincts, thatspontaneous alliance of two hearts suddenly mated, unfailing gratitude, irresistible sympathy, mutual echo, reciprocal exchange, quickappreciation, ardent and sublime harmony, that creates in onemoment--the poets are right--that creates in one moment eternal love!

To restore my tranquillity, I sat down to write to you, but had not thecourage to put my thoughts on paper, and I remained there all night, trembling and meditative, oppressed by this powerful emotion; I did notthink, I did not pray, I did not live; I loved, and absorbed in loving, taking no note of time, I sat there till daybreak; at five o'clock Iheard a noise of rakes and scythes in the garden, and wishing to coolmy hot eyes with a breath of fresh air, I descended to the terrace. 

Everybody was asleep in the château and all the blinds closed, but Iopened the glass door leading into the garden, and after walking up anddown the gravel-path, crossed the bridge over the brook, and went by wayof the little thicket where I had rested yesterday; I was led by somemagnetic attraction to the covered spring; I did not go up thepoplar-walk, but took a little by-path seldom used by any one, andalmost covered with grass; I reached the spring, and suddenly . . . Beforeme . . . I saw him . . . Valentine!. . . He was there alone, . . . Sitting onthe bench by the fountain, with his beautiful eyes fastened on the spotwhere he had seen me the day before! And oh, the sad wistfulness of hislook went straight to my heart! I stood still, happy, yet frightened; Iwished to flee; I felt that my presence was a confession, a proof of hisempire; I was right when I said he called me and I obeyed the call!. . . He looked up and saw me, . . . And oh, how pale he turned, . . . He seemedmore alarmed than I had been the day previous! His agitation restored mycalmness; it convinced me that during these hours of separation ourthoughts had been the same, and that our love was mutual. He arose andapproached me, saying:--

"This is your favorite place, madame, and I will not intrude any longer, but before I go you can reward this great sacrifice by a single word:confess frankly that you are not astonished at finding me here?" I wassilent, but my blushes answered for me. As he stood there looking at meI heard a noise near us; it was only a deer coming to drink at thespring; but I trembled so violently that M. De Villiers saw by my alarmthat it would distress me to be found alone with him; he was movingaway, when I made a sign for him to remain, which meant: Stay, andcontinue to think of me. . . . I then quickly returned to the château. Ihave seen him since; we passed the day together, with Madame de Meilhanand her son, playing on the piano, or entertaining the countryneighbors, but under it all enjoying the same fascinatingpreoccupation, an under-current of bliss, a secret intoxication. Edgaris uneasy and Madame de Meilhan is contented; the serious love of herson alarmed her; she sees with pleasure an increasing rivalry that maydestroy it. I know not what is about to happen, but I dread anythingunpleasant occurring to interrupt my sweet contentment; anyexplanations, humiliations, adieux, departures--a thousandannoyances, . . . But it matters not, I am happy, I am in love, and I knowthere is nothing so satisfying, so sweet as being in love!

This time I say nothing of yourself, my dear Valentine, of yourself, norof our old friendship, but is not each word of this letter a proof oftender devotion? I confide to you every thought and emotion of myheart--so foolish that one would dare not confess them to a mother. Isnot this the same as saying to you: You are the beloved sister of mychoice?

Give my dear little goddaughter Irene a kiss for me. Oh, I am so gladshe is growing prettier every day!

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XX. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR EDGAR DE MEILHANRicheport, Pont de l'Arche (Eure). 

Paris, July 8th 18--. 

Dear Edgar, --Stupidity was invented by our sex. When a woman deceives ordeserts us, --synonymous transgressions, --we are foolish enough toprolong to infinity our despair, instead of singing with Metastasio--

 "Grazie all' inganni tuoi Al fin respir' o Nice!"

Alas! such is man! Women have more pride. If I had deserted Mlle. DeChateaudun she certainly would not have searched the highways and bywaysto discover me. I fear there is a great deal of vanity at the bottom ofour manly passions. Vanity is the eldest son of love. I shall developthis theory upon some future occasion. One must be calm when onephilosophizes. At present I am obliged to continue in my folly, beggingreason to await my return. 

In the intense darkness of despair, one naturally rushes towards thehorizon where shines some bright object, be it lighthouse, star, phosphorus or jack-o'-lantern. Will it prove a safe haven or a dangerousrock? Fate, --Chance, --to thee we trust!

My faithful agents are ever watchful. I have just received theirdespatches, and they inspire me with the hope that at last the thickmist is about to be dispersed. I will spare you all the minute detailswritten by faithful servants, who have more sagacity than epistolarystyle, and give you a synopsis:--Mlle. De Chateaudun left for Rouen amonth ago. She engaged two seats in the car. She was seen at thedepot--her maid was with her. There is no longer any doubt--Irene is atRouen; I have proofs of it in my hand. 

An old family servant, devoted to me, is living at Rouen. I will makehis house the centre of my observations, and will not compromise theresult by any negligence or recklessness on part. 

The inexorable logic of victorious combinations will be revealed to meon the first night of my solitude. I am about to start; address me nolonger at Paris. Railways were invented for the benefit of love affairs. A lover laid the first rail, and a speculator laid the last. HappilyRouen is a faubourg of Paris! This advantage of rapid locomotion willpermit me to pass two hours at Richeport with you, and have the delightof pressing Raymond's hand. Two hours of my life gained by losing themwith my oldest and best friend. I will be overjoyed to once more see thenoble Raymond, the last of knight-errants, doubtless occupied inpainting in stone-color some old manor where Queen Blanche has lefttraditions of the course of true love. 

How dreadful it is, dear Edgar, to endeavor to unravel a mystery when awoman is at the bottom of it! Yes, Irene is at Rouen, I am convinced ofthat fact. Rouen is a large city, full of large houses, small houses, hotels and churches; but love is a grand inquisitor, capable ofsearching the city in twenty-four hours, and making the receiver ofstolen property surrender Mlle. De Chateaudun. Then what will happen?Have I the right to institute a scheme of this strange nature about ayoung woman? Is she alone at Rouen? And if misfortune does not misleadme by these certain traces, is there anything in reserve for me worsethan losing her?

Oh! if such be the case, then is the time to pray God for strength torepeat the other two verses of the poet:--

 "Col mio rival istesso, Posso di te parlar!"

Farewell, for a short time, dear Edgar. I fly to fathom this mystery. 

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XXI. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

RICHEPORT, July 6th, 18--. 

MADAME: Need I tell you that I left your house profoundly touched byyour goodness, and bearing away in my heart one of the most preciousmemories that shall survive my youth? What can I tell you that you havenot already learnt from my distress and emotion at the hour of parting?Tears came to my eyes as I pressed M. De Braimes's hand, that loyal handwhich had so often pressed my father's, and when I turned back to getone last look at you, surrounded by your beautiful children, who wavedme a final adieu, I felt as if I had left behind me the better part ofmyself; for a moment I reproached you for having cured me so quickly. Myfriends have nicknamed me Don Quixote, I do not exactly know why; butthis I do know, that with the prospect of a reward like unto that whichyou have offered me, any one would accept the office of redresser ofwrongs and slayer of giants, even at the risk of having to jump into thefire occasionally to save a Lady Penock. 

More generous than the angels, you have awarded me, on earth, the palmwhich is reserved for martyrs in heaven. You appeared before me like oneof those benevolent fairies which exorcise evil genii. 'Tis true thatyou do not wear the magic ring, but your wit alleviates suffering andproclaims a truce to pain. Till now I have laughed at the stoics whodeclare that suffering is not an evil; seated at my pillow, one smilefrom you converted me to their belief. Hitherto I have believed thatpatience and resignation were virtues beyond my strength and courage;without an effort, you have taught me that patience is sweet andresignation easy to attain. I have been persuaded that health is thegreatest boon given to man: you have proved its fallacy. And M. DeBraimes has shown himself your faithful accomplice, not to speak of yourdear little ones, who, for a month past, have converted my room into aflower-garden and a bird-cage, where they were the sweetest flowers andthe gayest birds. Finally, as if my life, restored by your tender care, was not enough, you have added to it the priceless jewel of yourfriendship. A thousand thanks and blessings! With you happiness enteredinto my destiny. You were the dawn announcing a glorious sunrise, theprelude to the melodies which, since yesterday, swell in my bosom. If Itake pleasure in recognising your gentle influence in the secret delightthat pervades my being, do not deprive me of the illusion. I believe, with my mother, in mysterious influences. I believe that, as there aremiserable beings who, unwittingly, drag misfortune after them and sow itover their pathway, there are others, on the other hand, who, marked bythe finger of God, bear happiness to all whom they meet. Happy thewanderer who, like me, sees one of those privileged beings cross hispath! Their presence, alone, brings down blessings from heaven and theearth blossoms under their footsteps. 

And really, madame, you do possess the faculty of dissipating fatalenchantments. Like the morning star, which disperses the mightygatherings of goblins and gnomes, you have shone upon my horizon andLady Penock has vanished like a shadow. Thanks to you, I crossed Francewith impunity from the borders of Isère to the borders of the Creuse, and then to the banks of the Seine, without encountering the implacableislander who pursued me from the fields of Latium to the foot of theGrande Chartreuse. I must not forget to state that at Voreppe, where Istopped to change horses, the keeper of the ruined inn, recognising mycarriage, politely presented me with a bill for damages; so much for abroken glass, so much for a door beaten in, so much for a shatteredladder. I commend to M. De Braimes this brilliant stroke of one of hisconstituents; it is an incident forgotten by Cervantes in the history ofhis hero. 

In spite of my character of knight-errant, I reached my dear mountainswithout any other adventure. I had not visited them for three years, andthe sight of their rugged tops rejoiced my heart. You would like thecountry; it is poor, but poetic. You would enjoy its green solitudes, its uncultivated fields, its silent valleys and little lakes enshrinedlike sheets of crystal in borders of sage and heather. Its chief charmto me is its obscurity; no curiosity-hunter or ordinary tourist has everfrightened away the dryads from its chestnut groves or the naiads fromits fresh streams. Even a flitting poet has scarcely ever betrayed itsrural mysteries. My château has none of the grandeur that you have, perhaps, ascribed to it. Picture to yourself a pretty country-house, lightly set on a hill-top, and pensively overlooking the Creuse flowingat its feet under an arbor of alder-bushes and flowering ash. Such as itis, imbedded in woods which shelter it from the northern blasts andprotect it from the heats of the summer solstice; there--if the hopethat inspires me is not an illusion of my bewildered brain; if the lightthat dazzles me is not a chance spark from chimerical fires, there, among the scenes where I first saw the light, I would hide my happiness. You see, madame, that my hand trembles as I write. One evening you and Iwere walking together, under the trees in your garden; your childrenplayed about us like young kids upon the green sward. As we walked wetalked, and insensibly began to speak of that vague need of loving whichtorments our youth. You said that love was a grave undertaking, and thatoften our whole life depended upon our first choice. I spoke of myaspirations towards those unknown delights, which haunted me with theirseductive visions as Columbus was haunted by visions of a new world. Gravely and pensively you listened to me, and when I began to trace theimage of the oft-dreamed-of woman, so vainly sought for in theungrateful domain of reality, I remember that you smiled as you said:"Do not despair, she exists; you will meet her some day. " Were youspeaking earnestly then? Is it she? Keep still, do not even breathe, shemight fly away. 

After a few days spent in revisiting the scenes of my childhood, andbreathing afresh the sweet perfumes still hovering around infancy'scradle, I left for Paris, where I scarcely rested The manner in which Iemployed the few hours passed in that hot city would doubtless surpriseyou, madame. My carriage rolled rapidly through the wealthy portion ofthe city, and following my directions was soon lost in the gloomysolitude of the Marais. 

I alighted in the wilderness of a deserted street before a melancholyand dejected-looking house, and as I raised the heavy latch of themassive door, my heart beat as if I were about to meet, after a longabsence, an aged mother who wept for my return, or a much-loved sister. I took a key from its nail in the porter's lodge and began to climb thestair, which, viewed from below, looked more picturesque than inviting, particularly when one proposed to ascend to the very top. Fortunately, Iam a mountaineer; I bounded up that wide ladder with as light a step asif it had been a marble stairway, with richly wrought balustrade. At theend of the ascent I hurriedly opened a door, and, perfectly at home, entered a small room. I paused motionless upon the threshold, andglanced feelingly around. The room contained nothing but a table coveredwith books and dust, a stiff oak arm-chair, a hard anduninviting-looking lounge, and on the mantel-piece, in two earthenvases, designed by Ziegler, the only ornaments of this poor retreat, afew dry, withered asters. No one expected me, I expected no one. There Iremained until evening, waiting for nightfall, thinking the sun wouldnever set and the day never end. Finally, as the night deepened, Ileaned on the sill of the only window, and with an emotion I cannotdescribe, watched the stars peep forth one by one. I would have giventhem all for a sight of the one star which will never shine again. ShallI tell you about it, madame, and would you comprehend me? You knownothing of my life; you do not know that, during two years, I lived inthat garret, poor, unknown, with no other friend than labor, no othercompanion than the little light which appeared and disappeared regularlyevery evening through the branches of a Canada pine. I did not knowthen, neither do I know now, who watched by that pale gleam, but I feltfor it a nameless affection, a mysterious tenderness. On leaving myretreat, I sent it, through the trees, a long farewell, and the notseeing it on my return distressed me as the loss of a brother. What hasbecome of you, little shining beacon, who illumined the gloom of mystudious nights? Did a storm extinguish you? or has God, whom I invokedfor you, granted my prayer, and do you shine with a less troubled ray inhappier climes? It is a long story; and I know a fresher and a morecharming one, which I will speedily tell you. 

I took the train the next day (that was yesterday) for Richeport, whereM. De Meilhan had invited me to meet him. You know M. De Meilhan withoutever having seen him. You are familiar with his verses and you likethem. I profess to love the man as much as his talents. Our friendshipis of long standing; I assisted at the first lispings of his muse; I sawhis young glory grow and expand; I predicted from the first the placethat he now holds in the poetic pleiad, the honor of a great nation. Tohear him you would say that he was a pitiless scoffer; to study him youwould soon find, under this surface of rancorless irony, more candor andsimplicity than he is himself aware of, and which few people possess whoboast of their faith and belief. He has the mind of a sceptic and thebelieving soul of a neophyte. 

In less than three hours I reached Pont de l'Arche. Railroads have beenmuch abused; it is charitable to presume that those honest people who doso have no relatives, friends nor sweethearts away from them. M. DeMeilhan and his mother were waiting for me at the depot; the firstdelights of meeting over--for you must remember that I have not seen mypoet for three years--I leave you to imagine the peals of laughter thatgreeted the mention of Lady Penock's formidable name. Edgar, who knew ofmy adventure and was excited by the joy of seeing me again, amusedhimself by startling the echoes with loud and repeated "Shockings!" Wedrove along in an open carriage, laughing, talking, pressing eachother's hands, asking question upon question, while Madame de Meilhan, after having shared our gayety, seemed to watch with interest theexhibition of our mutual delight. This scene had the most beautifulsurroundings in the world; an exquisite country, which in order to befully appreciated, visited, described, sung of in prose and verse, should be fifteen hundred miles from France. 

My mind is naturally gay, my heart sad. When I laugh, something withinme suffers and repines; it is by no means rare for me to pass suddenlyand without transition from the wildest gayety to the profoundestsadness and melancholy. On our arrival at Richeport we found severalvisitors at the châteaux, among the number a general, solemnly resignedto the pleasures of a day in the country. To escape this illustriouswarrior, who was engaged upon the battle of Friedland, Edgar made offbetween two cavalry charges and carried me into the park, where we weresoon joined by Madame de Meilhan and her guest, the terrible general atthe head. 

Interrupted for a moment by the skilful retreat of the young poet, thebattle of Friedland began again with redoubled fury. The paths of thepark are narrow; the warrior marched in front with Edgar, who wiped thedrops from his brow and exhausted himself in vain efforts to release hisarm from an iron grasp; Madame de Meilhan and those who accompanied herrepresented the corps d'armeé; I formed the rear guard; balls whistledby, battalions struggled, we heard the cries of the wounded and werestifled by the smell of powder; wishing to avoid the harrowing sight ofsuch dreadful carnage, I slackened my pace and was agreeably surprisedto find, at a turn in the path, that I had deserted my colors; Ilistened and heard only the song of the bulfinch; I took a long breathand breathed only the odor of the woods; I looked above the birches andaspens for a cloud of smoke which would put me upon the track of thecombatants; I saw only the blue sky smiling through the trees; I wasalone; by one of those reactions of which I spoke, I sank insensiblyinto a deep revery. 

It was intensely hot; I threw myself upon the grass, under the shadow ofa thick hedge, and there lay listening to nature's faint whispers, andthe beating of my own heart. The joy that I had just felt in meetingEdgar again, made the void in my heart, which friendship can never fill, all the more painful; my senses, subdued by the heat, chanted in endlesselegies the serious and soothing conversation that we had had oneevening under your lindens. Whether I had a presentiment of someapproaching change in my destiny, or whether I was simply overcome bythe heat, I know not, but I was restless; my restlessness seemed toanticipate some indefinite happiness, and from afar the wind bore to mein warm puffs the cheering refrain: "She exists, she exists, you willfind her!"

I at last remembered that I had only been Madame de Meilhan's guest afew hours, and that my abrupt disappearance must appear, to say theleast, strange to her. On the other hand, Edgar, whom I hadtreacherously abandoned in the greatest danger, would have seriousgrounds of complaint against me. I arose, and driving away the wingeddreams that hovered around me, like a swarm of bees round a hive, prepared to join my corps, with the cowardly hope that when I arrived, the engagement might be over and the victory won. Unfortunately, orrather fortunately, I was unacquainted with the windings of the park, and wandered at random through its verdant labyrinths, the sun pouringdown upon my devoted head until I heard the silvery murmur of aneighboring stream, babbling over its pebbly bed. Attracted by thefreshness of the spot, I approached and in the midst of a confusion ofiris, mint and bindweed, I saw a blonde head quenching its thirst at thestream. I could only see a mass of yellow hair wound in heavy goldencoils around this head, and a little hand catching the water like anopal cup, which it afterwards raised to two lips as fresh as the crystalstream which they quaffed. Her face and figure being entirely concealedby the aquatic plants which grew around the spring, I took her for achild, a girl of twelve or more, the daughter perhaps of one of thepersons whom I had left upon the battle-field of Friedland. I advanced afew steps nearer, and in my softest voice, for I was afraid offrightening her, said: "Mademoiselle, can you tell me if Madame deMeilhan is near here?" At these words I saw a young and beautifulcreature, tall, slender, erect, lift herself like a lily from among thereeds, and trembling and pale, examine me with the air of a startledgazelle. I stood mute and motionless, gazing at her. Surely shepossessed the royal beauty of the lily. An imagination enamored of themelodies of the antique muse would have immediately taken her for thenymph of that brook. Like two blue-bells in a field of ripe grain, herlarge blue eyes were as limpid as the stream which reflected the azureof the sky. On her brow sat the pride of the huntress Diana. Herattitude and the expression of her face betrayed a royalty which desiredto conceal its greatness, a strange mixture of timorous boldness andsuperb timidity--and over it all, the brilliancy of youth--a namelesscharm of innocence and childishness tempered in a charming manner thedignity of her noble presence. 

I turned away, charmed and agitated, not having spoken a word. Afterwandering about sometime longer I finally discovered the little armycorps, marching towards the château, the general always ahead. As I hadanticipated, the battle was about over, a few shots fired at thefugitives were alone heard. Edgar saw me in the distance, and lookedfurious. "Ah traitor!" said he, "you have lagged behind! I am riddledwith balls; I have six bullets in my breast, " "Monsieur, " cried thegeneral, "at what juncture did you leave the combat?" "You see, " saidEdgar to me, "that the torture is about to commence again. " "General, "observed Madame de Meilhan, "I think that the munitions are exhaustedand dinner is ready. " "Very well, " gravely replied the hero, "we willtake Lubeck at dessert. " "Alas! we are taken;" said Edgar, heaving asigh that would have lifted off a piece of the Cordilleras. 

M. De Meilhan left the group of promenaders and joined me; we walkedside by side. You can imagine, madame, how anxious I was to questionEdgar; you can also comprehend the feeling of delicacy which restrainedme. My poet worships beauty; but it is a pagan worship of color andform. The result is, a certain boldness of detail not always excusableby grace of expression, in his description of a beautiful woman; toolively an enthusiasm for the flesh; too great a satisfaction in drawinglines and contours not to shock the refined. A woman poses before himlike a statue or rather like a Georgian in a slave-market, and from themanner in which he analyzes and dissects her, you would say that hewanted either to sell or buy her. I allude now to his speech only, whichis lively, animated but rather French its picturesque crudity. As a poethe sculptures like Phidias, and his verse has all the dazzling purity ofmarble. 

I preferred to apply to Madame de Meilhan. On our return to the châteauI questioned her, and learned that my beautiful unknown was named MadameLouise Guérin. At that word "Madame" my heart contracted. Wherefore? Icould not tell. Afterwards I learned that she was a widow and poor, thatshe lived by the labor of those pretty fingers which I had seen dabblingin the water. Further than that, Madame de Meilhan knew nothing, herremarks were confined to indulgent suppositions and benevolent comments. A woman so young, so beautiful, so poor, working for her livelihood, must be a noble and pure creature. I felt for her a respectful pity, which her appearance in the drawing-room in all the magnificence of herbeauty, grace and youth, changed into extravagant admiration. Our eyesmet as if we had a secret between us; she appeared, and I yielded to thecharm of her presence. Edgar observed that she was his mother'scompanion, who would remain with her until he married. The wretch! if hehad not written such fine verses, I would have strangled him on thespot. I sat opposite her at dinner, and could observe her at my ease. She appeared like a young queen at the board of one of her greatvassals. Grave and smiling, she spoke little, but so to the point, andin so sweet a voice, that I cherished in my heart every word that fellfrom her lips, like pearls from a casket. I also was silent and wasastonished, that when she did not speak, any one should dare to open hislips before her. Edgar's witty sallies seemed to be in the worstpossible taste, and twenty times I was on the point of saying to him:"Edgar, do you not see that the queen is listening to you?"

At dessert, as the general was preparing to manoeuvre the artillery ofthe siege, every one rose precipitately, to escape the capture andpillage of Lubeck. Edgar rushed into the park, the guests dispersed; andwhile Madame de Meilhan, bearing with heroic resignation theinconveniences attached to her dignity as mistress of the house, foughtby the general's side like Clorinde by the side of Argant, I foundmyself alone, with the young widow, upon the terrace of the château. Wetalked, and a powerful enchantment compelled me to surrender my soulinto her keeping. I amazed myself by confiding to her what I had nevertold myself. 

My most cherished and hidden feelings were drawn irresistibly forth fromthe inmost recesses of my bosom. When I spoke, I seemed to translate herthoughts; when she in turn replied, she paraphrased mine. In less thanan hour I learned to know her. She possessed, at the same time, anexperimental mind, which could descend to the root of things, and atender and inexperienced heart which life had never troubled. Theoretically she was governed by a lofty and precocious reason ripenedby misfortune; practically, she was swayed by the dictates of aninnocent and untried soul. Until now, she has lived only in the activityof her thoughts; the rest of her being sleeps, seeks or awaits. Who isshe? She is not a widow. Albert Guérin is not her name; she has neverbeen married. Where Madame de Meilhan hesitates, I doubt, I decide. Howdoes it happen that the mystery with which she is surrounded has to meall the prestige and lustre of a glowing virtue? How is it that my heartrejoices at it when my prudence should take alarm? Another mystery, which I do not undertake to explain. All that I know is, that she ispoor, and that if I had a crown I should wish to ennoble it by placingit upon that lovely brow. 

Do not tell me that this is madness; that love is not born of a look ora word, that it must germinate in the heart for a season before it canbear fruit. Enthusiasts live fast. They reach the same end as reason, and by like paths; only reason drags its weary length along, whileenthusiasm flies on eagle's wing. Besides, this love has long sincebudded; it only sought a heart to twine itself around. Is it love? Ideceive myself perhaps. Whence this feeling that agitates me? thisintoxication that has taken possession of me? this radiance that dazzlesme? I saw her again, and the charm increased. How you would love her!how my mother would have loved her!

In the midst of these preoccupations I have not forgotten, madame, theinstructions that you gave me. That you are interested in Mademoisellede Chateaudun's destiny suffices to interest me likewise. The Prince deMonbert is expected here; I can therefore send you, in a few days, theinformation you desire taken on the spot. It has been ten years since Ihave seen the Prince; he has a brilliant mind and a loyal heart, and hehas, in his life, seen more tigers and postilions than any other man inFrance. I will scrupulously note any change that ten years' travel mayhave brought about in his manner of thinking and seeing; but I believethat I can safely declare beforehand, that nothing can be found in hisfrank nature to justify the flight of the strange and beautiful heiress. 

Accept, madame, my respectful homage. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS. 

XXII. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ M. LE COMTE DE VILLIERS, Pont de l'Arche (Eure). 

Rouen, July 10th 18--. 

Very rarely in life do we receive letters that we expect; we alwaysreceive those that we don't expect. The expected ones inform us of whatwe already know; the unexpected ones tell us of things entirely new. Aphilosopher prefers the latter--of which I now send you one. 

I passed some hours at Richeport with you and Edgar, and there I made adiscovery that you must have made before me, and a reflection that youwill make after me. I am sixty years old in my feelings--travel ages onemore than anything else--you are twenty-five, according to yourbaptismal register. How fortunate you are to have some one able to giveyou advice! How unfortunate I am that my experience has been sad enoughto enable me to be that one to give it! But I have a vague presentimentthat my advice will bring you happiness, if followed. We should neverneglect a presentiment. Every man carries in him a spark of Heaven'sintelligence--it is often the torch that illumines the darkness of ourfuture. This is called presentiment. 

Read attentively, and do not disturb yourself about the end. I mustfirst explain by what means of observation I made my discovery. Then thedénoûement will appear in its proper place, which is not at thebeginning. 

The following is what I saw at the Château de Richeport. You did not seeit, because you were an actor. I was merely a spectator, and had thatadvantage over you. 

You, Edgar, and myself were in the parlor at noon. It is the hour in thecountry when one takes shelter behind closed blinds to enjoy a friendlychat. One is always sad, dreamy, meditative at this hour of a lovelysummer-day, and can speak carelessly of indifferent things, and at thesame time have every thought concentrated upon one beloved object. These are the mysteries of the _Démon de Midi_, so much dreaded by thepoet-king. 

There was in one corner of the room a little rosewood-table, so frailthat it could be crushed by the weight of a man's hand. On this tablewas a piece of embroidery and a crystal vase filled with flowers. Suspended over this table was a copy of Camille Roqueplan's picture:"_The Lion in Love_. " In the recess near the window was a piano open, and evidently just abandoned by a woman; the little stool washalf-overturned by catching in the dress of some one suddenly rising, and the music open was a soprano air from _Puritani_:--

 "Vien diletto, in ciel e luna, Tutto tace intorno. . . . "

You will see how by inductions I reached the truth. I don't know thewoman of this piano; I nevertheless will swear she exists. Moreover, Iknow she is young, pretty, has a good figure, is graceful and easy inher manner, and is adored by some one in the château. If any ordinarywoman had left her embroidery on the table, if she had upset the stoolin leaving the piano, two idle nervous young men like yourselves wouldfrom curiosity and ennui have examined the embroidery, disarranged thevase of flowers, picked up the stool, and closed the piano. But no handdared to meddle with this holy disorder under pretext of arranging it. These evidences, still fresh and undisturbed, attest a respect thatbelongs only to love. 

This woman, to me unknown, is then young and pretty, since she is soardently loved, and by more than one person, as I shall proceed toprove. She has a commanding figure, because her embroidery is fine. Iknow not if she be maid or wife, but this I do know, if she is notmarried, the vestiges that she left in the parlor indicate a greatindependence of position and character. If she is married, she is notgoverned by her husband, or indeed she may be a widow. 

Allow me to recall your conversation with Edgar at dinner. Hitherto Ihave remarked that in all discussions of painting, music, literatureand love, your opinions always coincided with Edgar's; to hear you speakwas to hear Edgar, and _vice versa_. In opinions and sentiments you weretwin-brothers. Now listen how you both expressed yourselves before me onthat day. 

"I believe, " said Edgar, "that love is a modern invention, and woman wasinvented by André Chénier, and perfected by Victor Hugo, Dumas andBalzac. We owe this precious conquest to the revolution of '89. Beforethat, love did not exist; Cupid with his bow and quiver reigned as asovereign. There were no women, there were only _beauties_. 

 "O, miracle des belles, Je vous enseignerais un nid de tourterelles. "

"These two lines have undergone a thousand variations under the pens ofa thousand poets. Women were only commended for their eyes--verybeautiful things when they _are_ beautiful, but they should not be madethe object of exclusive admiration. A beauty possessing no attractionbut beautiful eyes would soon lose her sway over the hearts of men. Racine has used the words _eye_ and _eyes_ one hundred and sixty-fivetimes in _Andromache_. Woman has been deprived of her divine crown ofgolden or chestnut hair; she has been dethroned by having it coveredwith white powder. We have avenged woman for her long neglect; we havepreserved the _eyes_ and added all the other charms. Thus women love uspoets; and in our days Orpheus would not be torn to pieces by snowyhands on the shores of the Strymon. "

"Ah! that is just like you, Edgar, " you said, with a sad laugh and awould-be calm voice. "At dessert you always give us a dish of paradoxes. I myself greatly prefer Montmorency cherries. "

Some minutes after Edgar said:

"The other day I paid a visit to Delacroix. He has commenced a picturethat promises to be superb; my dear traveller, Roger, it will possessthe sky you love--pure indigo, the celestial carpet of the blue god. "

"I abhor blue, " you said; "I dread ophthalmia. Surfeit of blue compelsthe use of green spectacles. I adore the skies of Hobbema andBackhuysen; one can look at them with the naked eye for twenty years, and yet never need an oculist in old age. "

After some rambling conversation you uttered an eulogy on a sacred airof Palestrina that you heard sung at the Conservatory concert. When youhad finished, Edgar rested his elbows on the table, his chin on hishand, and let fall from his lips the following words, warmed by thespiritual fire of his eyes. 

"I have always abhorred church-music, " said he. "Sacred music isproscribed in my house as opium is in China. I like none but sentimentalmusic. All that does not resemble in some way the _Amor possente nome_of Rossini must remained buried in the catacombs of the piano. Music wasonly created for women and love. Doubtless simplicity is beautiful, butit so often only belongs to simple people. 

"Art is the only passion of a true artist. The music of Palestrinaresembles the music of Rossini about as much as the twitter of theswallow resembles the song of the nightingale. "

It was evident to me, my young friend, that neither of you expressedyour genuine convictions and true opinions. You were sitting opposite, and yet neither looked at the other while speaking. You both werehandsome and charming, but handsome and charming like two English cocksbefore a fight. What particularly struck me was that neither of you eversaid: "What is the matter with you to-day, my friend? you seem todelight in contradicting me. " Edgar did not ask you this question, nordid you ask it of him. You thought it useless to inquire into the causeof these half-angry contradictions; you both knew what you were about. You and Edgar both love the same woman. It is the woman who suddenlyretreated from the piano. Perhaps she left the house after somedisagreeable scene between you two in her presence. 

I watched all your movements when we three were together in the parlor. The tone of your voices, naturally sonorous, sounded harsh anddiscordant; you held in your hand a branch of _hibiscus_ that you idlypulled to pieces. Edgar opened a magazine and read it upside downwards;it was quite evident that you were a restraint upon each other, andthat I was a restraint upon you both. 

At intervals Edgar would cast a furtive glance at the open piano, at theembroidery, and the vase of flowers; you unconsciously did the same; butyour two glances never met at the same point; when Edgar looked at theflowers, you looked at the piano; if either of you had been alone, youwould have never taken your eyes off these trifles that bore theperfumed impression of a beloved woman's hand, and which seemed toretain some of her personality and to console you in her absence. 

You were the last comer in the house adorned by the presence of thiswoman; you are also the most reasonable, therefore your own sense andwhat is due to friendship must have already dictated your line ofconduct--let me add my advice in case your conscience is not quiteawake--fly! fly! before it is too late--linger, and your self-love, yourinterested vanity, will no longer permit you to give place to a friendwho will have become a rival. Passion has not yet taken deep root inyour heart; at present it is nothing more than a fancy, a transitorypreference, a pleasant employment of your idle moments. 

In the country, every young woman is more or less disposed to break thehearts of young men, like you, who gravitate like satellites. Womendelight in this play--but like many other tragic plays, it commenceswith smiles but terminates in tears and blood! Moreover, my youngfriend, in withdrawing seasonably, you are not only wise, you aregenerous!

I know that Edgar has been for a long time deeply in love with thiswoman; you are merely indulging in a rural flirtation, a momentarycaprice. In a little while, vain rivalry will make you blind, embitteryour disposition, and deceive you as to the nature of yoursentiments--believing yourself seriously in love you will be unable towithdraw. To-day your pride is not interested; wait not until to-morrow. Edgar is your friend, you must respect his prerogatives. A woman gaveyou a wise example to follow--she suddenly withdrew from the presence ofyou both when she saw a threatening danger. 

A pretty woman is always dangerous when she comes to inaugurate thedivinity of her charms in a lonely château, in the presence of twoinflammable young men. I detect the cunning of the fair unknown: shelavishes innocent smiles upon both of you--she equally divides hercoquetries between you; she approaches you to dazzle--she leaves you tomake herself regretted; she entangles you in the illusion of herbrilliant fascination; she moves to seduce your senses; she speaks tocharm your soul; she sings to destroy your reason. 

Forget yourself for one instant, my young friend, on this flowery slope, and woe betide you when you reach the bottom! Be intoxicated by thisfeast of sweet words, soft perfumes and radiant smiles, then send me areport of your soul's condition when you recover your senses! Atpresent, in spite of your skirmishes of wit, you are still the friend ofEdgar . . . Hostility will certainly come. Friendship is too feeble asentiment to struggle against love. This passion is more violent thantropical storms--I have felt it--I am one of its victims now! Therelives another woman--half siren, half Circe--who has crossed my path inlife, as you well know. If I had collected in my house as many friendsas Socrates desired to see in his, and all these friends were to becomemy rivals, I feel that my jealousy would fire the house, and I wouldgladly perish in the flames after seeing them all dead before my eyes. 

Oh, fatal preoccupation! I only wished to speak of your affairs, andhere I am talking of my own. The clouds that I heap upon your horizonroll back towards mine. 

In exchange for my advice, render me a service. You know Madame deBraimes, the friend of Mlle. De Chateaudun. Madame de Braimes isacquainted with everything that I am ignorant of, and that my happinessin life depends upon discovering. It is time for the inexplicable to beexplained. A human enigma cannot for ever conceal its answer. Everytrial must end before the despair of him who is tried. Madame de Braimesis an accomplice in this enigma; her secret now is a burden on herlips, she must let it fall into your ear, and I will cherish a life-longgratitude to you both. 

Any friend but you would smile at this apparently strange language--Iwrite you a long chapter of psychological and moral inductions to showmy knowledge about the management of love affairs and affairsotherwise--I divine all your enigmas; I illuminate the darkness of allyour mysteries, and when it comes to working on my own account, to beperspicacious for my own benefit, to make discoveries about my own loveaffair, I suddenly abdicate, I lose my luminous faculties, I put a bandover my eyes, and humbly beg a friend to lend me the thread of thelabyrinth and guide my steps in the bewildering darkness. All this mustappear singular to you, to me it is quite natural. Through the thousanddark accidents that love scatters in the path of life, light can onlyreach us by means of a friend. We ourselves are helpless; looking atothers we are lynx-eyed, looking at ourselves we are almost blind. It isthe optical nerve of the passions. It is mortifying to thus sacrificethe highest prerogatives of man at the feet of a woman, to feelcompelled to yield to her caprices and submit to the inexorableexigencies of love. The artificial life I am leading is odious to me. Patience is a virtue that died with Job, and I cannot perform themiracle of resuscitating it. 

Take my advice--be prudent--be wise--be generous--leave Richeport andcome to me; we can assist and console each other; you can render me agreat service, I will explain how when we meet--I will remain here for afew days; do not hesitate to come at once--Between a friend who fearsyou and a friend who loves you and claims you--can you hesitate?

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XXIII. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to Mme. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Grenoble (Isère). 

Pont de L'Arche, July 15th 18--. 

Come to my help, my dear Valentine--I am miserable. Each joyless morningfinds me more wretched than I was the previous night. Oh! what a burdenis life to those who are fated to live only for life itself! No sunshinegilds my horizon with the promises of hope--I expect nothing but sorrow. Who can I trust now that my own heart has misled me? When error arosefrom the duplicity of others I could support the disenchantment--thedeceptive love of Roger was not a bitter surprise, my instinct hadalready divined it; I comprehended a want of congeniality between us, and felt that a rapture would anticipate an alliance: and while thinkingI loved him, I yet said to myself: This is not love. 

But now I am my own deceiver--and I awaken to lament the self-confidenceand assurance that were the source of my strength and courage. Withflattering ecstasy I cried: It is he!. . . Alas! he replied not: It isshe! And now he is gone--he has left me! Dreadful awakening from sobeautiful a dream!

Valentine, burn quickly the letter telling you of my ingenuous hopes, myconfident happiness--yes, burn the foolish letter, so there will remainno witness of my unrequited love! What! that deep emotion agitating mywhole being, whose language was the tears of joy that dimmed my eyes, and the counted beatings of my throbbing heart--that master-passion, atwhose behest I trembled while blushes mantled and fled from my cheek, betraying me to him and him to me; the love whose fire I could nothide--the beautiful future I foresaw--that world of bliss in which Ibegan to live--this pure love that gave an impetus to life--thisdevotion that I felt was reciprocated. . . . All, all was but a creation ofmy fancy. . . . And all has vanished . . . Here I am alone with nothing tostrengthen me but a memory . . . The memory of a lost illusion. . . . Have Ia right to complain? It is the irrevocable law--after fiction, reality--after a meteor, darkness--after the mirage, a desert!

I loved as a young heart full of faith and tenderness never lovedbefore--and this love was a mistake; he was a stranger to me--he did notlove me, and I had no excuse for loving him; he is gone, he had a rightto go, and I had no right to detain him--I have not even the right tomourn his absence. Who is he? A friend of Madame de Meilhan, and astranger to me!. . . He a stranger!. . . To me!. . . No, no, he loves me, Iknow he does . . . But why did he not tell me so! Has some one comebetween us? Perhaps a suspicion separates us. . . . Oh! he may think I amin love with Edgar! horrible idea! the thought kills me. . . . I will writeto him; would you not advise it? What shall I tell him? If he were toknow who I am, doubtless his prejudices against me would be removed. Oh!I will return to Paris--then he will see that I do not love Edgar, sinceI leave him never to return where he is. Yet he could not have beenmistaken concerning the feelings existing between his friend and myself;he must have seen that I was perfectly free: independence cannot beassumed. If he thought me in love with another, why did he come to bidme good-bye? why did he come alone to see me? and why did he not alludeto my approaching return to Paris?--why did he not say he would be gladto meet me again? How pale and sad he was! and yet he uttered not oneword of regret--of distant hope! The servant said: "Monsieur de Villierswishes to see madame, shall I send him away as I did Monsieur deMeilhan?" I was in the garden and advanced to meet him. He said: "Ireturn to Paris to-morrow, madame, and have come to see if you have anycommands, and to bid you good-bye. "

Two long days had passed since I last saw him, and this unexpected visitstartled me so that I was afraid to trust my voice to speak. "They willmiss you very much at Richeport, " he added, "and Madame de Meilhan hopesdaily to see you return. " I hastily said: "I cannot return to herhouse, I am going away from here very soon. " He did not ask where, butgazed at me in a strange, almost suspicious way, and to change theconversation, said: "We had at Richeport, after you left, a charmingman, who is celebrated for his wit and for being a great traveller--thePrince de Monbert. " . . . He spoke as if on an indifferent subject, andHeaven knows he was right, for Roger at this moment interested me very, very little. I waited for a word of the future, a ray of hope tobrighten my life, another of those tender glances that thrilled my soulwith joy . . . But he avoided all allusion to our past intercourse; heshunned my looks as carefully as he had formerly sought them. . . . I wasalarmed. . . . I no longer understood him. . . . I looked around to see if wewere not watched, so changed was his manner, so cold and formal was hisspeech. . . . Strange! I was alone with him, but he was not alone with me;there was a third person between us, invisible to me, but to himvisible, dictating his words and inspiring his conduct. 

"Shall you remain long in Paris?" I asked, trembling and dismayed. "I amnot decided at present, madame, " he replied. Irritated by this mystery, I was tempted for a moment to say: "I hope, if you remain in Paris forany length of time, I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at mycousin's, the Duchess de Langeac, " and then I thought of telling him mystory. I was tired of playing the rôle of adventuress before him . . . Buthe seemed so preoccupied, and inattentive to what I said, he so coldlyreceived my affectionate overtures, that I had not the courage toconfide in him. Would not my confidence be met with indifference? Onething consoled me--his sadness; and then he had come, not on my account, but on his own; nothing obliged him to make this visit; it could onlyhave been inspired by a wish to see me. While he remained near me, inspite of his strange indifference, I had hope; I believed that in hisfarewell there would be one kind word upon which I could live till weshould meet again . . . I was mistaken . . . He bowed and left me . . . Leftme without a word . . . ! Then I felt that all was lost, and bursting intotears sobbed like a child. Suddenly the servant opened the door andsaid: "The gentleman forgot Madame de Meilhan's letters. " At that momenthe entered the room and took from the table a packet of letters that theservant had given him when he first came, but which he had forgottenwhen leaving. At the sight of my tears he stood still with an agitated, alarmed look upon his face; he then gazed at me with a singularexpression of cruel joy sparkling in his eyes. I thought he had comeback to say something to me, but he abruptly left the room. I heard thedoor shut, and knew it had shut off my hopes of happiness. 

The next day, at the risk of meeting Edgar with him, I remained all dayon the road that runs along the Seine. I hoped he would go that way. Ialso hoped he would come once more to see me . . . To bring him back Irelied upon my tears--upon those tears shed for him, and which he musthave understood . . . He came not! Three days have passed since he left, and I spend all my time in recalling this last interview, what he saidto me, his tone of voice, his look. . . . One minute I find an explanationfor everything, my faith revives . . . He loves me! he is waiting forsomething to happen, he wishes to take some step, he fears someobstacle, he waits to clear up some doubts . . . A generous scruplerestrains him. . . . The next minute the dreadful truth stares me in theface. I say to myself: "He is a young man full of imagination, ofromantic ideas . . . We met, I pleased him, he would have loved me had Ibelonged to his station in life; but everything separates us; he willforget me. " . . . Then, revolting against a fate that I can successfullyresist, I exclaim: "I _will_ see him again . . . I am young, free, andbeautiful--I must be beautiful, for he told me so--I have an income of ahundred thousand pounds. . . . With all these blessings it would be absurdfor me not to be happy. Besides, I love him deeply, and this ardent loveinspires me with great confidence . . . It is impossible that so much loveshould be born in my heart for no purpose. " . . . Sometimes thisconfidence deserts me, and I despairingly say: "M. De Villiers is aloyal man, who would have frankly said to me: 'I love you, love me andlet us be happy. '" . . . Since he did not say that, there must existbetween us an insurmountable obstacle, a barrier of invincible delicacy;because he is engaged he cannot devote his life to me, and he mustrenounce me for ever. M. De Meilhan comes here every day; I send word Iam too sick to see him; which is the truth, for I would be in Paris nowif I were well enough to travel. I shall not return by the cars, I dreadmeeting Roger. I forgot to tell you about his arrival at Richeport; itis an amusing story; I laughed very much at the time; _then_ I couldlaugh, now I never expect to smile again. 

Four days ago, I was at Richeport, all the time wishing to leave, andalways detained by Mad. De Meilhan; it was about noon, and we were allsitting in the parlor--Edgar, M. De Villiers, Mad. De Meilhan andmyself. Ah! how happy I was that day . . . How could I foresee anytrouble?. . . They were listening to an air I was playing from Bellini . . . A servant entered and asked this simple question: "Does madame expectthe Prince de Monbert by the twelve o'clock train?". . . . . At this name Iquickly fled, without stopping to pick up the piano stool that Ioverturned in my hurried retreat. I ran to my room, took my hat and anumbrella to hide my face should I meet any one, and walked to Pont del'Arche. Soon after I heard the Prince had arrived, and dinner wasordered for five o'clock, so he could leave in the 7. 30 train. Politeness required me to send word to Mad. De Meilhan that I would bedetained at Pont de l'Arche. To avoid the entreaties of Edgar I tookrefuge at the house of an old fishwoman, near the gate of the town. Sheis devoted to me, and I often take her children toys and clothes. Athalf-past six, the time for Roger to be taken to the depôt, I was at thewindow of this house, which was on the road that led to thecars--presently I heard several familiar voices. . . . I heard my namedistinctly pronounced. . . . "Mlle de Chateaudun. " . . . I concealed myselfbehind the half-closed blinds, and attentively listened: "She is atRouen, " said the Prince. 

. . . "What a strange woman, " said M. De Villiers: "Ah! this conduct iseasily explained, " said Edgar, "she is angry with him. " "Doubtless shebelieves me culpable, " replied the Prince, "and I wish at all costs tosee her and justify myself. " In speaking thus, they all three passedunder the window where I was. I trembled--I dared not look at them. . . . When they had gone by, I peeped through the shutter and saw them allstanding still and admiring the beautiful bridge with its flower-coveredpillars, and the superb landscape spread before them. Seeing these threehandsome men standing there, all three so elegant, so distinguished! Awicked sentiment of female vanity crossed my mind; and I said to myselfwith miserable pride and triumph: "All three love me . . . All three arethinking of me!" . . . Oh! I have been cruelly punished for thiscontemptible vanity. Alas! one of the three did not love me--and he wasthe one I loved--one of them did not think of me, and he was the onethat filled my every thought. Another sentiment more noble than thefirst, saddened my heart. I said: "Here are three devoted friends . . . Perhaps they will soon be bitter enemies . . . And I the cause. " OValentine! you cannot imagine how sad and despondent I am. Do not desertme now that I most need your comforting sympathy! Burn my last letter, Ientreat you. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XXIV. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to_ MADAME GUERIN, Pont de l'Arche (Eure). 

RICHEPORT, July 10th 18--. 

Three times have I been to the post-office since you left the château insuch an abrupt and inexplicable manner. I am lost in conjecture aboutyour sudden departure, which was both unnecessary and unprepared. It isdoubtless because you do not wish to tell me the reason that you refuseto see me. I know that you are still at Pont de l'Arche, and that youhave never left Madame Taverneau's house. So that when she tells me in ameasured and mysterious tone that you have been absent for some time;looking at the closed door of your room, behind which I divine yourpresence, I am seized with an insane desire to kick down the narrowplank which separates me from you. Fits of gloomy passion possess mewhich illogical obstacles and unjust resistance always excite. 

What have I done? What can you have against me? Let me at least know thecrime for which I am punished. On the scaffold they always read thevictim his sentence, equitable or otherwise. Will you be more cruel thana hangman? Read me my sentence. Nothing is more frightful than to beexecuted in a dungeon without knowing for what offence. 

For three days--three eternities--I have taxed my memory to an alarmingextent. I have recalled everything that I have said for the last twoweeks, word by word, syllable for syllable, endeavoring to give to eachexpression its intonation, its inflection, its sharps and flats. Everydifferent signification that the music of the voice could give to athought, I have analyzed, debated, commented upon twenty times a day. Not a word, accent nor gesture has enlightened me. I defy the mostembittered and envious spirit to find anything that could offend themost susceptible pride, the haughtiest majesty. Nothing has occurred inmy familiar intercourse with you that would alarm a sensitive plant ora mimosa. Therefore, such cannot be the motive for your panic-strickenflight. I am young, ardent, impetuous; I attach no importance to certainsocial conventionalities, but I feel confident that I have never failedin a religious respect for the holiness of love and modesty. I loveyou--I could never, wilfully, have offended you. How could my eyes andlips have expressed what was neither in my head nor in my heart? Ifthere is no fire without smoke, as a natural consequence there can be nosmoke without fire!

It is not that--Is it caprice or coquetry? Your mind is too serious andyour soul too honest for such an act; and besides, what would be yourobject? Such feline cruelties may suit blasé women of the world who areroused by the sight of moral torture; who give, in the invisible sphereof the passions, feasts of the Roman empresses, where beating hearts aretorn by the claws of the wild beasts of the soul, unbridled desires, insatiate hate and maddened jealousy, all the hideous pack of badpassions. Louise, you have not wished to play such a game with me. Itwould be unavailing and dangerous. 

Although I have been brought up in what is called the world, I am stilla savage at heart. I can talk as others do of politics, railroads, social economy, literature. I can imitate civilized gesture tolerablywell; but under this white-glove polish I have preserved the vehemenceand simplicity of barbarism. Unless you have some serious, paramountreason, not one of those trivial excuses with which ordinary womenrevenge themselves upon the lukewarmness of their lovers--do not prolongmy punishment a day, an hour, a minute--speak not to me of reputation, virtue or duty. You have given me the right to love you--by the light ofthe stars, under the sweet-scented acacias, in the sunlight at thewindow of Richard's donjon which opens over an abyss. You have conferredupon me that august priesthood. Your hand has trembled in mine. Acelestial light, kindled by my glance, has shone in your eyes. If onlyfor a moment, your soul was mine--the electric spark united us. 

It may be that this signifies nothing to you. I refuse to acknowledgeany such subtle distinctions--that moment united us for ever. For oneinstant you wished to love me; I cannot divide my mind, soul and bodyinto three distinct parts; all my being worships you and longs to obtainyou. I cannot graduate my love according to its object. I do not knowwho you are. You might be a queen of earth or the queen of heaven; Icould not love you otherwise. 

Receive me. You need explain nothing if you do not wish; but receive me;I cannot live without you. What difference does it make to you if I seeyou?

Ah! how I suffered, even when you were at the château! What evilinfluence stood between us? I had a vague feeling that somethingimportant and fatal had happened. It was a sort of presentiment of thefulfilment of a destiny. Was your fate or mine decided in that hour, orboth? What decisive sentence had the recording angel written upon theineffaceable register of the future? Who was condemned and who absolvedin that solemn hour?

And yet no appreciable event happened, nothing appeared changed in ourlife. Why this fearful uneasiness, this deep dejection, thispresentiment of a great but unknown danger? I have had that sameinstinctive perception of evil, that magnetic terror which slumberingmisers experience when a thief prowls around their hidden treasure; itseemed as if some one wished to rob me of my happiness. 

We were embarrassed in each other's presence; some one acted as arestraint upon us. Who was it? No one was there but Raymond, one of mybest friends, who had arrived the evening before and was soon to departin order to marry his cousin, young, pretty and rich! It is singularthat he, so gentle, so confiding, so unreserved, so chivalrous, shouldhave appeared to me sharp, taciturn, rough, almost dull, --and myfeelings towards him were full of bitterness and spite. Can friendshipbe but lukewarm hate? I fear so, for I often felt a savage desire toquarrel with Raymond and seize him by the throat. He talked of a bladeof grass, a fly, of the most indifferent object, and I felt wounded asif by a personality. Everything he did offended me; if he stood up I wasindignant, if he sat down I became furious; every movement of his seemeda provocation; why did I not perceive this sooner? How does it happenthat the man for whom I entertain such a strong natural aversion shouldhave been my friend for ten years? How strange that I should not havebeen aware of this antipathy sooner!

And you, ordinarily so natural, so easy in your manners, becameconstrained; you scarcely answered me when he was present. The simplestexpression agitated you; it seemed as if you had to give an account tosome one of every word, and that you were afraid of a scolding, like ayoung girl who is brought by her mother into the drawing-room for thefirst time. 

One evening, I was sitting by you on the sofa, reading to you thatsublime elegy of the great poet, La Tristesse d'Olympio; Raymondentered. You rose abruptly, like a guilty child, assumed an humble andrepentant attitude, asking forgiveness with your eyes. In what secretcompact, what hidden covenant, had you failed?

The look with which Raymond answered yours doubtless contained yourpardon, for you resumed your seat, but moved away from me so as not toabuse the accorded grace; I continued to read, but you no longerlistened--you were absorbed in a delicious revery through which floatedvaguely the lines of the poet. I was at your feet, and never have I feltso far away from you. The space between us, too narrow for another tooccupy, was an abyss. 

What invisible hand dashed me down from my heaven? Who drove me, in myunconsciousness, as far from you as the equator from the pole? Yesterdayyour eyes, bathed in light and life, turned softly towards me; your handrested willingly in mine. You accepted my love, unavowed but understood;for I hate those declarations which remind one of a challenge. If onehas need to say that he loves, he is not worth loving; speech isintended for indifferent beings; talking is a means of keeping silent;you must have seen, in my glance, by the trembling of my voice, in mysudden changes of color, by the impalpable caress of my manner, that Ilove you madly. 

It was when Raymond looked at you that I began to appreciate the depthof my passion. I felt as if some one had thrust a red-hot iron into myheart. Ah! what a wretched country France is! If I were in Turkey, Iwould bear you off on my Arab steed, shut you up in a harem, with wallsbristling with cimetars, surrounded by a deep moat; black eunuchs shouldsleep before the threshold of your chamber, and at night, instead ofdogs, lions should guard the precincts!

Do not laugh at my violence, it is sincere; no one will ever love youlike me. Raymond cannot--a sentimental Don Quixote, in search ofadventures and chivalrous deeds. In order to love a woman, he must havefished her out of the spray of Niagara; or dislocated his shoulder instopping her carriage on the brink of a precipice; or snatched her outof the hands of picturesque bandits, costumed like Fra Diavolo; he isonly fit for the hero of a ten-volume English novel, with a long-tailedcoat, tight gray pantaloons and top-boots. You are too sensible toadmire the philanthropic freaks of this modern paladin, who would beridiculous were he not brave, rich and handsome; this moral Don Juan, who seduces by his virtue, cannot suit you. 

When shall I see you? Our moments of happiness in this life are soshort; I have lost three days of Paradise by your persistence inconcealing yourself. What god can ever restore them to me?

Louise, I have only loved, till now, marble shadows, phantoms of beauty;but what is this love of sculpture and painting compared with thepassion that consumes me? Ah! how bittersweet it is to be deprived atonce of will, strength and reason, and trembling, kneeling, vanquished, to surrender the key of one's heart into the hands of the beautifulvictor! Do not, like Elfrida, throw it into the torrent!

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XXV. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE BE BRAIMES, Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

ROUEN, July 12th 18--

MADAME:--If you should find in these hastily written lines expressionsof severity that might wound you in one of your tenderest affections, Ibeg you to ascribe them to the serious interest with which you haveinspired me for a person whom I do do not know. Madame, the case isserious, and the comedy, performed for the gratification of childishvanity, might, if prolonged, end in a tragedy. Let Mademoiselle deChateaudun know immediately that her peace of mind, her whole future isat stake. You have not a day, not an hour, not an instant to lose inexerting your influence. I answer for nothing; haste, O haste! Yourposition, your high intelligence, your good sense give you, necessarily, the authority of an elder sister or a mother over Mademoiselle deChateaudun; exercise it if you would save that reckless girl. If sheacts from caprice, nothing can justify it; if she is playing a game itis a cruel one, with ruin in the end; if she is subjecting M. De Monbertto a trial, it has lasted long enough. 

I accompanied M. De Monbert to Rouen; I lived in daily, hourlyintercourse with him, and had ample opportunities for studying hischaracter; he is a wounded lion. Never having had the honor of meetingMademoiselle de Chateaudun, I cannot tell whether the Prince is the manto suit her; Mademoiselle de Chateaudun alone can decide so delicate aquestion. But I do assert that M. De Monbert is not the man to betrifled with, and whatever decision Mademoiselle de Chateaudun may cometo, it is her duty and due to her dignity to put an end to his suspense. 

If she must strike, let her strike quickly, and not show herself morepitiless than the executioner, who, at least, puts a speedy end to hisvictim's misery. M. De Monbert, a gentleman in the highest acceptationof the word, would not be what he now is, if he had been treated withthe consideration that his sincere distress so worthy of pity, his truelove so worthy of respect, commanded. Let her not deceive herself; shehas awakened, not one of those idle loves born in a Parisian atmosphere, which die as they have lived, without a struggle or a heart-break, but astrong and deep passion that if trifled with may destroy her. Iacknowledge that there is something absurd in a prince on the eve ofmarrying a young and beautiful heiress finding himself deserted by hisfiancée with her millions; but when one has seen the comic hero of thislittle play, the scene changes. The smile fades from the lips; the jestis silent; terror follows in the footsteps of gayety, and the foolishfreak of the lovely fugitive assumes the formidable proportions of afrightful drama. M. De Monbert is not what he is generally supposed tobe, what I supposed him before seeing him after ten years' separation. His blood has been inflamed by torrid suns; he has preserved, in ameasure, the manners and fierce passions of the distant peoples that hehas visited; he hides it all under the polish of grace and elegance;affable and ready for anything, one would never suspect, to see him, thefierce and turbulent passions warring in his breast; he is like thosewells in India, which he told me of this morning; they are surrounded byflowers and luxuriant foliage; go down into one of them and you willquickly return pale and horror-stricken. Madame, I assure you that thisman suffers everything that it is possible to suffer here below. I watchhis despair; it terrifies me. Wounded love and pride do not alone preyupon him; he is aware that Mademoiselle de Chateaudun may believe himguilty of serious errors; he demands to be allowed to justify himself inher eyes; he is exasperated by the consciousness of his unrecognisedinnocence. Condemn him, if you will, but at least let him be heard inhis own defence. I have seen him writhe in agony and give way to groansof rage and despair. When calm, he is more terrible to contemplate; hissilence is the pause before a tempest. Yesterday, on returning, discouraged, after a whole day spent in fruitless search, he took myhand and raised it abruptly to his eyes. "Raymond, " said he, "I havenever wept, " and my hand was wet. If you love Mademoiselle deChateaudun, if her future happiness is dear to you, if her heart canonly be touched through you, warn her, madame, warn her immediately;tell her plainly what she has to expect; time presses. 

It is a question of nothing less than anticipating an irreparablemisfortune. There is but one step from love to hate; hate which takesrevenge is still love. Tell this child that she is playing with thunder;tell her the thunder mutters, and will soon burst over her head. IfMademoiselle de Chateaudun should have a new love for her excuse, if shehas broken her faith to give it to another, unhappy, thrice unhappy she!M. De Monbert has a quick eye and a practised hand; mourning wouldfollow swiftly in the wake of her rejoicing, and Mademoiselle deChateaudun might order her widow's weeds and her bridal robes at thesame time. 

This, madame, is all that I have to say. The foolish rapture with whichmy last letter teemed is not worth speaking of. A broken hope, crushed, extinguished; a happiness vanished ere fully seen! During the four daysthat I was at Richeport, I began to remark the existence between M. DeMeilhan and myself of a sullen, secret, unavowed but real irritation, when a letter from M. De Monbert solved the enigma by convincing me thatI was in the way under that roof. Fool, why did I not see it myself andsooner? Blind that I was, not to perceive from the first that this youngman loved that woman! Why did I not instantly divine that this youngpoet could not live unscathed near so much beauty, grace and sweetness?Did I think, unhappy man that I am, that she was only fair to me; that Ialone had eyes to admire her, a heart to worship and understand her?Yes, I did think it; I believed blindly that she bloomed for me alone;that she had not existed before our meeting; that no look, save mine, had ever rested upon her; that she was, in fact, my creation; that Ihad formed her of my thoughts, and vivified her with the fire of mydreams. Even now, when we are parted for ever, I believe, that if Godever created two beings for each other, we are those two beings, and ifevery soul has a sister spirit, her soul is the sister spirit of mine. M. De Meilhan loves her; who would not love her? But what he loves inher is visible beauty: the slope of her shoulders, the perfection of hercontours. His love could not withstand a pencil-stroke which mightdestroy the harmony of the whole. Beautiful as she is, he would deserther for the first canvas or the first statue he might encounter. Herrivals already people the galleries of the Louvre; the museums of theworld are filled with them. Edgar feels but one deep and true love; thelove of Art, so deep that it excludes or absorbs all others in hisheart. A fine prospect alone charms him, if it recalls a landscape ofRuysdael or of Paul Huet, and he prefers to the loveliest model, herportrait, provided it bears the signature of Ingres or Scheffer. Heloves this woman as an artist; he has made her the delight of his eyes;she would have been the joy of my whole life. Besides, Edgar does notpossess any of the social virtues. He is whimsical by nature, hostile tothe proprieties, an enemy to every well-beaten track. His mind is alwaysat war with his heart; his sincerest inspirations have the scoffingaccompaniment of Don Juan's romance. No, he cannot make the happiness ofthis Louise so long sought for, so long hoped for, found, alas! to beirremediably lost. Louise deceives herself if she thinks otherwise. Butshe does not think so. What is so agonizing in the necessity thatseparates us, is the conviction that such a separation blasts twodestinies, silently united. I do not repine at the loss of my ownhappiness alone, but above all, over that of this noble creature. I amconvinced that when we met, we recognised each other; she mentallyexclaimed, "It is he!" when I told myself, "It is she!" When I went tobid her farewell, a long, eternal farewell, I found her pale, sad; thetears rolled, unchecked, down her cheeks. She loves me, I know it; Ifeel it; and still I must depart! she wept and I was forced to besilent! One single word would have opened Paradise to us, and that wordI could not utter! Farewell, sweet dream, vanished for ever! And thou, stern and stupid honor, I curse thee while I serve thee, and execratewhile I sacrifice all to thee. Ah! do not think that I am resigned; donot believe that pride can ever fill up the abyss into which I havevoluntarily cast myself; do not hope that some day I shall findself-satisfaction as a recompense for my abnegation. There are momentswhen I hate myself and rebel against my own imbecility. Why depart? Whatis Edgar to me? still less, what interest have I in his love episodes? Ilove; I feel myself loved in return; what have I to do with anythingelse?

Contempt for my cowardly virtue is the only price that I have receivedfor my sacrifice, and I twit myself with this thought of Pascal: "Man isneither an angel nor a brute, and the misfortune is that when he wishesto make himself an angel, he becomes a brute!" Be silent, my heart! Atleast it shall never be said that the descendant of a race of cavaliersentered his friend's house to rob him of his happiness. 

I am sad, madame. The bright ray seen for a moment, has but made thedarkness into which I have fallen, more black and sombre; I amunutterably sad! What is to become of me? Where shall I drag out myweary days? I do not know. Everything wearies and bores me, or ratherall things are indifferent to me. I think I will travel. Wherever I go, your image will accompany me, consoling me, if I can be consoled. Atfirst I thought that I would carry you my heart to comfort; but myunhappiness is dear to me, and I do not wish to be cured of it. 

I press M. De Braimes's hand, and clasp your charming children warmly tomy heart. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS. 

XXVI. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Poste Restante (Rouen). 

Richeport, July 23d 18--. 

I am mad with rage, wild with grief! That Louise! I do not know whatkeeps me from setting fire to the house that conceals her! I must goaway; I shall commit some insane act, some crime, if I remain! I havewritten her letter after letter; I have tried in every way to see her;all my efforts unavailing! It is like beating your head against a wall!Coquette and prude!--appalling combination, too common a monstrosity, alas!

She will not see me! all is over! nothing can overcome her stupid, obstinacy which she takes for virtue. If I could only have spoken to heronce, I should have said--I don't know what, but I should have foundwords to make her return to me. But she entrenches herself behind herobstinacy; she knows that I would vanquish her; she has no goodarguments with which to answer me; for I love her madly, desperately, frantically! Passion is eloquent. She flies from me! O perfidy andcowardice! she dare not face the misery she has caused, and veils hereyes when she strikes!

I am going to America. I will dull my mental grief by physicalexhaustion; I will subdue the soul through the body; I will ascend thegiant rivers whose bosoms bloom with thousands of islands; penetrateinto the virgin forests where no trapper has yet set his foot; I willhunt the buffalo with the savage, and swim upon that ocean of shaggyheads and sharp horns; I will gallop at full speed over the prairie, pursued by the smoke of the burning grass. If the memory of Louiserefuses to leave me, I will stop my horse and await the flames! I willcarry my love so far away that it must perforce leave me. 

I feel it, my life is wrecked for ever!--I cannot live in a world whereLouise is not mine! Perhaps the young universe may contain a panaceafor my anguish! Solitude shall pour its balm in my wound; once away fromthis civilization which stifles me, nature will cradle me in hermotherly arms; the elements will resume their empire over me; ocean, sky, flowers, foliage will draw off the feverish electricity thatexcites my nerves; I will become absorbed in the grand whole, I will nolonger live; I will vegetate and succeed in attaining the content of theplant that opens its leaves to the sun. I feel that I must stop mybrain, suspend the beating of my heart, or I shall go raving mad. 

I shall sail from Havre. A year from now write to me at the English fortin the Rocky Mountains, and I will join you in whatever corner of theglobe you have gone to bury your despair over the loss of Irene deChateaudun!

EDGAR DE MEILHAN

XXVII. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to_ MADAME GUERIN, Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure). 

RICHEPORT, July 23d 18--. 

Louise, I write to you, although the resolution that I have takenshould, no doubt, he silently carried out; but the swimmer strugglingwith the waves in mid-ocean cannot help, although he knows it isuseless, uttering a last wild cry ere he sinks forever beneath theflood. Perhaps a sail may appear on the desert horizon and his lastdespairing shout be heard! It is so hard to believe ourselves finallycondemned and to renounce all hope of pardon! My letter will be of noavail, and yet I cannot help sending it. 

I am going to leave France, change worlds and skies. My passage is takenfor America. The murmur of ocean and forest must soothe my despair. Agreat sorrow requires immensity. I would suffocate here. I shouldexpect, at every turn, to see your white dress gleaming among the trees. Richeport is too much associated with you for me to dwell here longer;your memory has exiled me from it for ever. I must put a hugeimpossibility between myself and you; six thousand miles hardly sufficeto separate us. 

If I remained, I should resort to all manner of mad schemes to recovermy happiness; no one gives up his cherished dream with more reluctancethan I, especially when a word could make it a reality. 

Louise, Louise, why do you avoid me and close your heart against me! Youhave not understood, perhaps, how much I love you? Has not my devotionshone in my eyes? I have not been able, perhaps, to convey to you what Ifelt? You have no more comprehended my adoration than the insensate idolthe prayers of the faithful prostrated before it. 

Nevertheless, I was convinced that I could make you happy; I thoughtthat I appreciated the longings of your soul, and would be able tosatisfy them all. 

What crime have I committed against heaven to be punished with thisbiting despair? Perhaps I have failed to appreciate some sincereaffection, repulsed unwittingly some simple, tender heart that yourcoldness now avenges; perhaps you are, unconsciously, the Nemesis ofsome forgotten fault. 

How fearful it is to suffer from rejected love! To say to oneself: "Theloved one exists, far from me, without me; she is young, smiling, lovely--to others; my despair is only an annoyance to her, I amnecessary to her in nothing; my absence leaves no void in her life; mydeath would only provoke from her an expression of careless pity; mygood and noble qualities have made no impression upon her; my verses, the delight of other young hearts, she has never read; my talents are asdestructive to me as if they were crimes; why seek a hell in anotherworld; is it not here?"

And besides, what infinite tenderness, what perpetual care, what timidand loving persistence, what obedience to every unexpressed wish, whatprompt realization of even the slightest fancy! for what! for a carelessglance, a smile that the thought of another brings to her lips! How canit be helped! he who is not beloved is always in the wrong. 

I go away, carrying the iron in my wound; I will not drag it out, Iprefer to die with it. May you live happy, may the fearful sufferingthat you have caused me never be expiated. I would have it so; societypunishes murder of the body, heaven punishes murders of the soul. Mayyour hidden assassination escape Divine vengeance as long as possible. 

Farewell, Louise, farewell. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XXVIII. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

PARIS, July 27th 18--. 

Valentine, I am very uneasy. Why have I not heard from you for a month?Are you in any trouble? Is one of your dear children ill? Are you nolonger at Grenoble? Have you taken your trip without me? The last wouldbe the most acceptable reason for your silence. You have not received myletters, and ignorance of my sorrows accounts for your not writing toconsole me. Yet never have I been in greater need of the offices offriendship. The resolution I have just taken fills me with alarm. Iacted against my judgment, but I could not do otherwise. I wasinfluenced by an agonized mother, whose hallowed grief persuaded meagainst my will to espouse her interests. Why have I not a friend hereto interpose in my behalf and save me from myself? But, after all, doesit make any difference what becomes of me? Hope is dead within me. I nolonger dream of happiness. At last the sad mystery is explained. . . . M. De Villiers is not free; he is engaged to his cousin. . . . Oh, he does notlove her, I am sure, but he is a slave to his plighted troth, and ofcourse she loves him and will not release him . . . Can he, for astranger, sacrifice family ties and a love dating from his childhood?Ah! if he really loved me, he would have had the courage to make thissacrifice; but he only felt a tender sympathy for me, lively enough tofill him with everlasting regret, not strong enough to inspire him witha painful resolution. Thus two beings created for each other meet for amoment, recognise one another, and then, unwillingly, separate, carryingin their different paths of life a burden of eternal regrets! And theylanguish apart in their separate spheres, unhappy and attached tonothing but the memory of the past--made wretched for life by theaccidents of a day!

They are as the passengers of different ships, meeting for an hour inthe same port, who hastily exchange a few words of sympathy, then passaway to other latitudes, under other skies--some to the North, others tothe South, to the land of ice--to the cradle of the sun--far, far awayfrom each other, to die. Is it then true that I shall never see himagain? Oh, my God! how I loved him! I can never forgive him for notaccepting this love that I was ready to lavish upon him. 

I will now tell you what I have resolved to do. If I waver a moment Ishall not have the courage to keep my promise. Madame de Meilhan iscoming after me; I could not, after causing her such sorrow, resist thetears of this unhappy mother. She was in despair; her son had suddenlyleft her, and in spite of the secrecy of his movements, she discoveredthat he was at Havre and had taken passage there for America, on thesteamer Ontario. She hoped to reach Havre in time to see her son, andshe relied upon me to bring him home. I am distressed at causing her somuch uneasiness, but what can I say to console her? I will at best begenerous; Edgar's sorrow is like my own; as he suffers for me, I sufferfor another; I cannot see his anguish, so like my own, without profoundpity; this pity will doubtless inspire me with eloquence enough topersuade him to remain in France and not break his mother's heart bydesertion. Besides, I have promised, and Madame de Meilhan relies uponme. How beautiful is maternal love! It crushes the loftiest pride, itoverthrows with one cry the most ambitious plans; this haughty woman issubjugated by grief; she calls me her daughter; she gladly consents tothis marriage which, a short time ago, she said would ruin her son'sprospects, and which she looked upon with horror; she weeps, shesupplicates. This morning she embraced me with every expression ofdevotion and cried out: "Give me back my son! Oh, restore to me myson!. . . You love him, . . . He loves you, . . . He is handsome, charming, talented. . . . I shall never see him again if you let him go away; tellhim you love him; have you the cruelty to deprive me of my only son?"What could I say? how could I make an idolizing mother understand that Idid not love her son?. . . If I had dared to say, "It is not he that Ilove, it is another, " . . . She would have said: "It is false; there isnot a man on earth preferable to my son. " She wept over the letter thatEdgar wrote me before leaving. Valentine, this letter was noble andtouching. I could not restrain my own tears when I read it. Finally, Iwas forced to yield. I am to accompany Madame de Meilhan to Havre; Ihope we will reach there before the steamer leaves!. . . Edgar will not goto America, . . . And I!. . . Oh, why is he the one to love me thus?. . . Shehas come for me! Adieu; write to me, my dear Valentine, . . . I am somiserable. If you were only here! What will become of me? Adieu!

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XXIX. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

Paris, Aug. 2d 18--. 

It is fortunate for me to-day, my dear Valentine, that I have thereputation of being a truthful person, professing a hatred of falsehood, otherwise you would not believe the strange facts that I am about torelate to you. I now expect to reap the fruits of my unvaryingsincerity. Having always shown such respect for truth, I deserve to bebelieved when I assert what appears to be incredible. 

What startling events have occurred in a few hours! My destiny has beenchanged by my peeping through a hole!! Without one word of comment Iwill state exactly what happened, and you must not accuse me of highlycoloring my pictures; they are lively enough in themselves without anyassistance from me. Far from adding to their brilliancy, I shallendeavor to tone them down and give them an air of probability. We leftPont de l'Arche the other day with sad and anxious hearts; during thejourney Mad. De Meilhan, as if doubting the strength of my resolutionand the ardor of my devotion, dilated enthusiastically upon the meritsof her son. She boasted of his generosity, of his disinterestedness andsincerity; she mentioned the names of several wealthy young ladies whomhe had refused to marry during the last two or three years. She spoke ofhis great success as a poet and a brilliant man. She impressed upon methat a noble love could exercise such a happy influence upon his genius, and said it was in my power to make him a good and happy man for life, by accepting this love, which she described to me in such touchinglanguage, that I felt moved and impressed, if not with love, at leastwith tender appreciation. She said Edgar had never loved any one as hehad loved me--this passion had changed all his ideas--he lived for mealone. To indure him to listen to any one it was necessary to bring myname in the conversation so as to secure his ear; he spent his days andnights composing poems in my honor. He should have returned to Paris inresponse to the beautiful Marquise de R. 's sighs and smiles, but henever had the courage to leave me; for me he had pitilessly sacrificedthis woman, who was lovely, witty and the reigning belle of Paris. Shemournfully told me of the wild foolish things he would do upon hisreturn to Richeport, after having made fruitless attempts to see me atPont de l'Arche; his cruelty to his favorite horse, his violence againstthe flowers along the path, that he would cut to pieces with his whip;his sullen, mute despair; his extravagant talk to her; her ownuneasiness; her useless prayers; and finally this fatal departure thatshe had vainly endeavored to prevent. She saw that I was affected bywhat she said, she seized my hand and called down blessing's upon me, thanking me a thousand times passionately and imperiously, as if tocompel me to accede to her wishes. 

I sorrowfully reflected upon all this trouble that I had caused, and wasfrightened at the conviction that I had by a few engaging smiles and alittle harmless coquetry inspired so violent a passion. Thinking thus, Idid justice to Edgar, and acknowledged that some reparation was due tohim. He must have taken all these deceptive smiles to himself; when Ifirst arrived at Pont de l'Arche, I had no scruples about beingattractive, I expected to leave in a few days never to return again. Since then I had without pity refused his love, it is true; but could hebelieve this proud disdain to be genuine, when, after this decisiveexplanation, he found me tranquilly established at his mother's house?And there could he follow the different caprices of my mind, divinethose temptations of generosity which first moved me in his favor, andthen discover this wild love that was suddenly born in my soul for aphantom that I had only seen for a few hours?. . . . Had he not, on thecontrary, a right to believe that I loved him, and to exclaim againstthe infamy, cruelty and perfidy of my refusing to see him, and myendeavors to convince him that I cared nothing for him? He was right toaccuse me, for appearances were all against me--my own conduct condemnedme. I must acknowledge myself culpable, and submit to the sentence thathas been pronounced against me. I resigned myself sadly to repair thewrong I had committed. One hope still remained to me: Edgar brought backby me would be restored to his mother, but Edgar would cease to love mewhen he knew my real name. There is a difference between loving anadventuress, whose affections can be trifled with, and loving a woman ofhigh birth and position, who must be honorably sought in marriage. Edgarhas an invincible repugnance to matrimony; he considers this augustinstitution as a monstrous inconvenience, very immoral, a profanerevelation of the most sacred secrets of life; he calls it a publicexhibition of affection; he says no one has a right to proclaim hispreference for one woman. To call a woman: my wife! what revoltingindiscretion! To call children: my children! what disgusting fatuity! Inhis eyes nothing is more horrible than a husband driving in the ChampsElysées with his family, which is tantamount to telling the passers-by:This woman seated by my side is the one I have chosen among all women, and to whom I am indebted for all pleasure in life; and this little girlwho resembles her so much, and this little boy, the image of me, are thebonds of love between us. The Orientals, he added, whom we callbarbarians, are more modest than we; they shut up their wives; theynever appear in public with them, they never let any one see the objectsof their tenderness, and they introduce young men of twenty, not astheir sons, but as the heirs of their names and fortunes. 

Recalling these remarkable sentiments of M. De Meilhan, I said tomyself: he will never marry. But Mad. De Meilhan, who was aware of herson's peculiar thoeries, assured me that they were very much modified, and that one day in speaking of me, he had angrily exclaimed: "Oh! Iwish I were her husband, so I could shut her up, and prevent any oneseeing her!" Now I understand why a man marries! This was not veryreassuring, but I devoted myself like a victim, and for a victim thereis no half sacrifice. Generosity, like cruelty, is absolute. 

After a night of anxious travel, we reached Havre at about ten in themorning. We drove rapidly to the office of the American steamers. Madamede Meilhan rushed frantically about until she found the sleepy clerk, who told her that M. De Meilhan had taken passage on the _Ontario_. 

"When does this vessel leave?"

"I cannot tell you, " said the gaping clerk. 

We ran to the pier and tremblingly asked: "Can you tell us if theAmerican vessel _Ontario_ sails to-day?"

The old sailor replied to us in nautical language which we could notunderstand. Another man said: "The _Ontario_ is pretty far out by thistime!" We ran to the other end of the pier and found a crowd of peoplewatching a cloud that was gradually disappearing in the distance. "I seenothing now, " said one of the people. But I saw a little . . . Littlesmoke . . . And I could distinctly see a flag with a large O on it. . . . Madame de Meilhan, pale and breathless, had not the strength to ask thename of the fatal vessel that was almost out of sight . . . I could onlygasp out the word "_Ontario?"_ . . . 

"Precisely so, madame, but don't be uneasy . . . It is a fast vessel, andyour friends will land in America before two weeks are passed. You lookastonished, but it is the truth, the _Ontario_ is never behind time!"Madame de Meilhan fell fainting in my arms. She was lifted to ourcarriage and soon restored to consciousness, but was so overcome thatshe seemed incapable of comprehending the extent of her misfortune. Wedrove to the nearest hotel, and I remained in her room silently weepingand reproaching myself for having destroyed the happiness of thisfamily. 

During these first moments of stupor Madame de Meilhan showed noindignation at my presence; but no sooner had she recovered the use ofher senses than she burst into a storm of abuse; calling me a detestableintriguer, a low adventuress who, by my stage tricks, had turned thehead of her noble son; I would be the cause of his death--that fatalcountry would never give back her son; what a pity to see so superior aman, a pride and credit to his country, perish, succumb, to the snaresof an obscure prude, who had not the sense to be his mistress, who wasincapable of loving him for a single day; an ambitious schemer, who haddetermined to entrap him into marriage, but unhesitatingly sacrificedhim to M. De Villiers as soon as she found M. De Villiers was the richerof the two, . . . And many other flattering accusations she made, thatwere equally ill-deserved. I quietly listened to all this abuse, andwent on preparing a glass of _eau sucrée_ for the poor weeping fury, whose conduct inspired me with generous pity. When she had finished hertirade, I silently handed her the orange water to calm her anger, and Ilooked at her . . . My look expressed such firm gentle pride, suchgenerous indulgence, such invulnerable dignity, that she felt herselfcompletely disarmed. She took my hand and said, as she dried her tears:"You must forgive me, I am _so_ unhappy!" Then I tried to console her; Itold her I would write to her son, and she would soon have him back, asmy letter would reach New York by the time he landed, and then it wouldonly take him two weeks to return. This promise calmed her; then Ipersuaded her to lie down and recover from the fatigue of travelling allnight. When I saw her poor swollen eyelids fairly closed, I left her toenjoy her slumbers and retired to my own room. I rested awhile and thenrang to order preparations for our departure; but instead of the servantanswering the bell, a pretty little girl, about eight years old, enteredmy room; upon seeing me she drew back frightened. 

"What do you want, my child?" I said, drawing her within the door. 

"Nothing, madame, " she said. 

"But you must have come here for something?"

"I did not know that madame was in her room. "

"What did you come to do in here?"

"I came, as I did yesterday, to see. "

"To see what?"

"In there . . . The Turks . . . "

"The Turks? What! am I surrounded by Turks?"

"Oh! they are not in the little room adjoining yours; but through thislittle room you can look into the large saloon where they all stay andhave music . . . Will madame permit me to pass through?"

"Which way?"

"This way. There is a little door behind this toilet-table; I open it, go in, get up on the table and look at the Turks. "

The child rolled aside the toilet-table, entered the little room, and ina few minutes came running back to me and exclaimed:

"Oh! they are so beautiful! does not madame wish to see them?"

"No. "

In a short time she returned again. 

"The musicians are all asleep, " she said . . . "but, madame, the Turks arecrazy--they don't sleep--they don't speak--they make horriblefaces--they roll their eyes--they have such funny ways--one of themlooks like my uncle when he has the fever--Oh! that one must be crazy, madame-- . . . Look, he is going to dance! now he is going to die!"

The absurd prattle of the child finally aroused my curiosity. I wentinto the little room, and, mounting the table beside her, looked througha crevice in the wooden partition and clearly saw everything in thelarge saloon. It was hung up to a certain height with rich Turkishstuffs. The floor was covered by a superb Smyrna carpet. In one recessof the room the musicians were sleeping with their bizarre musicalinstruments tightly clasped in their arms. A dozen Turks, magnificentlydressed, were seated on the soft carpet in Oriental fashion, that is tosay, after the manner of tailors. They were supported by piles ofcushions of all sizes and shapes, and seemed to be plunged in ecstaticoblivion. 

One of these dreamy sons of Aurora attracted my attention by hisbrilliant costume and flashing arms. By the pale light of the exhaustedlamps and the faint rays of dawning day, almost obscured by the heavydrapery of the windows, I could scarcely distinguish the features ofthis splendid Mussulman, at the same time I thought I had seen himbefore. I had seen but few pachas during my life, but I certainly hadmet this one somewhere, I looked attentively and saw that his hands werewhiter than those of his compatriots--this was a suspicious fact. Afterclosely watching this doubtful infidel, this amateur barbarian, I beganto suspect civilization and Europeanism. . . . One of the musicians asleepnear the window, turned over and his long guitar--a _guzla_, I think itis called--caught in the curtain and drew it a little open; the sunlightstreamed in the room and an accusing ray fell upon the face of thespurious young Turk. . . . It was Edgar de Meilhan! A little cup filledwith a greenish conserve rested on a cushion near by. I remembered thathe had often spoken to me of the wonderful effects of hashish, and ofthe violent desire he had of experiencing this fascinating stupefaction;he had also told me of one of his college friends who had been living inSmyrna for some years; an original, who had taken upon himself themission of re-barbarizing the East. This friend had sent him a number ofIndian poinards and Turkish pipes, and had promised him some tobacco andhashish. This modern and amateur Turk was named Arthur Granson. . . . Iasked the innkeeper's little daughter if she knew the name of the manwho had hired the saloon? She said yes, that he was named MonsieurGranson. . . . This name and this meeting explained everything. 

O Valentine! I will be sincere to the end, . . . And confess that Edgarwas wonderfully handsome in this costume!. . . The magnificent orientalstuff, the Turkish vest, embroidered in gold and silver, the yatagans, pistols and poinards studded with jewels, the turban draped withinimitable art--all these things gave him a majestic, superb, imposingaspect!. . . Which at first astonished me, . . . For we are all childrenwhen we first see beautiful objects, . . . But he had a stupid look. . . . No, never did a sultan of the opera, throwing his handkerchief to hisbayadère . . . A German prince of the gymnasium complimented by hiscourt--a provincial Bajazet listening to the threatening declarations ofRoxana--never did they display in the awkwardness of their rôles, in thestiffness of their movements, an attitude more absurdly ridiculous, anexpression of countenance more ideally stupid. It is difficult tocomprehend how a brilliant mind could so completely absent itself fromits dwelling-place without leaving on the face it was wont to animate, asingle trace, a faint ray of intelligence! Edgar had his eyes raised tothe ceiling, . . . And for an instant I think I caught his look, . . . ButHeavens! what a look! May I never meet such another! I shall add onemore incident to my recital--important in itself but distasteful to meto relate--I will tell it in as few words as possible: Edgar was leaningon two piles of cushions; he seemed to be absorbed in the contemplationof invisible stars; he was awake, but a beautiful African slave, dressedlike an Indian queen, was sleeping at his feet!

This strange spectacle filled my heart with joy. Instead of beingindignant, I was delighted at this insult to myself. Edgar evidentlyforgot me, and truly he had a right to forget me; I was not engaged tohim as I had been to Roger. A young poet has a right to dress like aTurk, and amuse himself with his friends, to suit his own fancy; but anoble prince has no right to scandalize the public when the dignity ofhis rank has to be striven after and recovered; when the glory of hisname is to be kept untarnished. Oh! this disgusting sight gave rise tono angry feeling in my bosom, I at once comprehended the advantages ofthe situation. No more sacrifice, no more remorse, no more hypocrisy! Iwas free; my future was restored to me. Oh, the good Edgar! Oh, the dearpoet! How I loved him . . . For not loving me!!

I told the little girl to run quickly and bring me a servant. When theman came I handed him six louis to sharpen his wits, and then solemnlygave him my orders: "When they ring for you in that saloon, do you tellthat young Turk with a red vest on . . . You will remember him?" "Yes, madame. " "You will tell him that the countess his mother is waiting herefor him, in room No. 7, at the end of the corridor. " "Ah! the lady whowas weeping so bitterly?" "The same one. " "Madame may rely upon me. "

I then paid my bill, and, inquiring the quickest way of leaving Havre, Ifled from the hotel. Walking along Grande Rue de Paris, I saw withpleasure that the city was filled with strangers, who had come to takepart in the festivities that were taking place at Havre, and that Icould easily mingle in this great crowd and leave the town without beingobserved. Uneasy and agitated, I hurried along, and just as I waspassing the theatre I heard some one call me. Imagine my alarm when Idistinctly heard some one call: "Mlle. Irene! Mlle. Irene!" I was sofrightened that I could scarcely move. The call was repeated, and I sawmy faithful Blanchard rushing towards me, breathless and then Irecognised the supplicating voice . . . I turned around and weeping, sheexclaimed: "I know everything, Mlle. , you are going to America! Take mewith you. This is the first time I have ever been separated from yousince your birth!" I had left the poor woman at Pont de l'Arche, andshe, thinking I was going to America, had followed me. "Be quiet andfollow me, " said I, forgetting to tell her that I was not going toAmerica. I reached the wharf and jumped into a boat; the unhappyBlanchard, who is a hydrophobe, followed me. "You are afraid?" said I. "Oh, no, Mlle. , I am afraid on the Seine, but at sea it is quite adifferent thing. " The touching delicacy of this ingenious conceit movedme to tears. Wishing to shorten the agony of this devoted friend, I toldthe oarsman to row us into the nearest port, instead of going further bywater, as I had intended, in order to avoid the Rouen route and thePrince, the steamboat and M. De Meilhan. As soon as we landed I sent myfaithful companion to the nearest village to hire a carriage, "I must bein Paris, to-morrow, " said I. "Then we are not going to America?" "No. ""So much the better, " said she, as she trotted off in high glee to lookfor a carriage. I remained alone, gazing at the ocean. Oh! how I enjoyedthe sight! How I would love to live on this charming, terrible azuredesert! I was so absorbed in admiration that I soon forgot my worldlytroubles and the rain tribulations of my obscure life. I was intoxicatedby its wild perfume, its free, invigorating air! I breathed for thefirst time! With what delight I let the sea-breeze blow my hair about myburning brow! How I loved to gaze on its boundless horizon! Howmuch--laugh at my vanity--how much I felt at home in this immensity! Iam not one of those modest souls that are oppressed and humiliated bythe grandeur of Nature; I only feel in harmony with the sublime, notthrough myself, but through the aspirations of my mind. I never feel asif there was around me, above me, before me, too much air, too muchheight, too much space. I like the boundless, luminous horizon to rendersolitude and liberty invisible to my eyes. 

I know not if every one else is impressed as I was upon seeing the oceanfor the first time. I felt released from all ties, purified of allhatred, and even of all earthly love; I was freed, calm, strong, armed, ready to brave all the evils of life, like a being who had received fromGod a right to disdain the world. The ocean and the sky have this goodeffect upon us--they wean us from worldly pleasures. 

Upon reaching Paris, I went at once to your father's to inquire aboutyou, and had my uneasiness about you set at rest. You must have leftGeneva by this time; I hope soon to receive a letter from you. I am notstaying with my cousin. I am living in my dear little garret. I wish along time to elapse before I again become Mlle. De Chateaudun. I wishtime to recover from the rude shocks I have had. What do you think of mylast experience? What a perfect success was my theory of discouragement!Alas! too perfect. First trial: Western despair and champagne! Secondtrial: Eastern despair and hashisch!--Not to speak of the consolatoryaccessories, snowy-armed beauties and ebony-armed slaves! I would bevery unsophisticated indeed if I did not consider myself sufficientlyenlightened. I implore you not to speak to me of your hero whom you wishme to marry; I am determined never to marry. I shall love an image, cherish a star. The little light has returned. I see it shining as Iwrite to you. Yes, these poetic loves are all-sufficient for my woundedsoul. One thing disturbs me; they have cut down the large trees in frontof my window. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall at last see the being thatdwells in this fraternal garret. . . . Valentine--suppose it should be mylong-sought ideal!. . . I tremble! perhaps a third disenchantment awaitsme. . . . Good-night, my dear Valentine, I embrace you. I am very tired, but very happy . . . It is so delightful to be relieved of all uneasiness, to feel that you are not compelled to console any one. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XXX. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Poste Restante (Rouen). 

PARIS, July 27th 18--. 

My dear Roger, at the risk of bringing down upon my head the ridiculemerited by men who fire a pistol above their heads after having left ontheir table the night before the most thrilling adieux to the world, Imust confess that I have not gone; you have a perfect right to drive meout of Europe; I promised to go to America, and you can compel me tofulfil my promise; be clement, do not overpower me with ridicule; do notriddle me with the fire of your mocking artillery; my sorrow, eventhough I remain in the old world, is none the less crushing. 

I must tell you how it all happened. 

As all my life I have never been able to comprehend the division oftime, and it's a toss-up whether I distinguish day from night, I turnedmy back on the best hotel in Havre, and stopped at one nearest thewharf, from whence I could see the smoke-stacks of the Ontario, about tosail for New York. I was leaning on the balcony, in the melancholyattitude of Raphael's portrait, gazing at the swell of the ocean, withthat feeling of infinite sadness which the strongest heart must yield toin the presence of that immensity formed of drops of bitter water, likehuman tears. I followed, listlessly, with my eyes the movements of astrange group which had just landed from the Portsmouth packet. Theywere richly-dressed Orientals, followed by negro servants and womenenveloped in long veils. 

One of these Turks looked up as he passed under my window, saw me, andexclaimed in very correct French, with a decided Parisian accent: "Why, it's Edgar de Meilhan!" and, regardless of Oriental dignity, he dashedinto the inn, bounded into my room, rubbed my face against his crispblack beard, punched me in the stomach with the carved hilts of acomplete collection of yataghans and kandjars, and finally said, seeingmy uncertainty: "Why! don't you know me, your old college chum, yourplaymate in childhood, Arthur Granson! Does my turban make such a changein me? So much the better! Or are you mean enough to stick to the letterof the proverb which pretends that friends are not Turks? By Allah andhis prophet Mahomet, I shall prove to you that Turks are friends. "

During this flood of words I had in truth recognised Arthur Granson, agood and odd young fellow, whom I am very fond of, and who would surelyplease you, for he is the most paradoxical youth to be found in the fivedivisions of the globe. And, what is very rare, he acts out hisparadoxes, a whim which his great independence of character and aboveall a large fortune permit him to indulge, for gold is liberty; the onlyslaves are the poor. 

"This much is settled, I will install myself here with my living paletteof local colors;" and without giving me time to answer him, he left meto give the necessary orders for lodging his suite. 

When he returned, I said to him: "What does this strange masquerademean? The carnival has been over for some time, and will not returnimmediately, as we are hardly through the summer. " "It is not amasquerade, " replied Arthur, with a dogmatic coolness and transcendentalgravity which at any other time would have made me laugh. "It is acomplete system, which I shall unfold to you. "

Whereupon my friend, taking off his Turkish slippers, crossed his legson the divan in the approved classic attitude of the Osmanli, andrunning his fingers through his beard, spoke as follows:

"During my travels I have observed that no people appreciate thepeculiar beauties of the country they inhabit. No one admires his ownphysiognomy; every one would like to resemble some one else. Spaniardsand Turks make endless excuses for being handsome and picturesque. TheAndalusian apologizes to you for not wearing a coat and round hat. TheArnaout, whose costume is the most gorgeous and elegant that has everbeen worn by the human form divine, sighs as he gazes at your overcoat, and consults with himself upon the advisability of shooting you to getpossession of it, in the first mountain gorge where he may meet youalone or poorly attended. Civilization is the natural enemy of beauty. All its creations are ugly. Barbarism--or rather relative barbarism--hasfound the secret of form and color. Man living so near to Natureimitates her harmony, and finds the types of his garments and hisutensils in his surroundings. Mathematics have not yet developed theirstraight lines, dry angles and painful aridity. Now-a-days, picturesquetraditions are lost, the long pantaloon has invaded the universe;frightful fashion-plates circulate everywhere; now, I refuse to believethat man's taste has become perverted to such a degree that if he wereshown costumes combining elegance with richness, he would not preferthem to hideous modern rags. Having made these judicious and profoundreflections, I felt as if I had been enlightened from above, and thesecret of my earthly mission revealed to me; I had come into the worldto preach costume, and, as you see, I preach it by example. Reflectingthat Turkey is the country most menaced by the overcoat and stove-pipehat, I went to Constantinople to bring about a reaction in favor of theembroidered vest and the turban. My grave studies upon the subject, myfortune and my taste have enabled me to attain the _ne plus ultra_ ofstyle. 

"I doubt whether a Sultan ever possessed so splendid or socharacteristic a wardrobe. I discovered among the bazaars of the citiesleast infected by the modern spirit, some tailors with a profoundcontempt for Frank fashions, who, with their tremulous hands, performedmarvels of cutting and embroidery. I will show you caftans braided in amiserable little out-of-the-way village of Asia Minor, by some poordevils whom you would not trust with your dog, which surpass, inintricacy of design, the purest arabesques of the Alhambra, and incolor, the most gorgeous peacock tails of Eugene Delacroix or NarcisoRuy Diaz de la Pena, a great painter, who out of commiseration for thecommonalty only makes use of a quarter of his name. 

"I am happy to say that my apostleship has not been without fruit. Ihave brought back to the dolman more than one young Osmanli about to righimself out at Buisson's; I have saved more than one horse of the Nedjirace from the insult of an English saddle; more than one tipsy Turkaddicted to champagne has returned to opium at my suggestion. SomeGeorgians who were about to be admitted to the balls of the Europeanembassies are indebted to me for being shut up closer than ever. Iimpressed upon these degenerate Orientals the disastrous results of sucha breach of propriety. I persuaded the Sultan Abdul Medjid to give upthe idea of introducing the guillotine into his empire. Withoutflattering myself, I think I have done a great deal of good, and ifthere were only a few more gay fellows like myself we should preventpeople from making guys of themselves--And what are you doing, my dearEdgar?" "I am going to America, and I am waiting for the Ontario to getup steam, " "That's a good idea! You can become a savage and resuscitatethe last Mohican of Fenimore Cooper. I already see you, with a blueturtle on your breast, eagle's feathers in your scalp, and moccasinsworked with porcupine quills. You will be very handsome; with your sadair you will look as if you were weeping over your dead race. If I hadnot been away for four years, I would accompany you, but I was in such ahurry to put my affairs in order, that I have returned to France by wayof England, in order to avoid the quarantine. I will admit you to myreligion; you shall become my disciple; I preserve barbaric costumes, you shall preserve savage costumes. It is not so handsome, but it ismore characteristic. There were some Indians on our steamer; I studiedthem; they are the people to suit you. But, before your departure, wewill indulge in an Eastern orgie in the purest style. " "My dear Granson, I am not in a humor to take part in an orgie, even though it be anEastern orgie; I am desperately sad. " "Very well; I see that you are;some heart sorrow; you Occidentals are always in a state of tormentabout some woman; which would never occur if they were all shut up; itis dangerous to let such animals wander about. I am delighted that youare so sad and melancholy. I can now prove to you the superior efficacyof my exhilarating means. I found at Cairo, in the Teriaki Square, opposite the hospital for the insane--wasn't it a profoundlyphilosophical idea to establish in such a place dealers inhappiness?--an old scamp, dry as a papyrus of the time of Amenoteph, shrivelled as the beards of the Pschent of the goddess Isis; thiscabalistic druggist possessed the true receipt for the preparation ofhashisch; besides, he seemed old enough to have gotten it direct fromthe Old Man of the Mountain, if he were not himself the Prince ofAssassins who lived in the time of Saint Louis; this skeleton in aparchment case furnished me with a quantity of paradise, under the guiseof green paste, in little Japanese cups done up in silver wire. I intendto initiate you into these hypercelestial delights. I shall give you abox of happiness, which will make you forget all the false coquettes inthe world. "

Without listening to my repeated refusals, Granson begged me to call himhenceforth Sidi-Mahmoud; had his room spread with Persian rugs, ottomanspiled up in every direction, the walls cushioned to lean against, andperfumes scattered about; three or four dusky musicians placedthemselves in a convenient recess with taraboucks, rebeks and guzlas--anEthiopean, naked to the waist, served us the precious drug on a redlacquered waiter. 

To accommodate Granson I swallowed several spoonfuls of this greenishconfection, which, at first, seemed to be flavored with honey andpistachio. I had dressed myself--for Granson is one of those obstinateidiots that one is compelled to yield to in order to get rid of--in anAnatolian costume of fabulous richness, my friend insisting that whenone ascends to Paradise he should not be annoyed by the slope of hissleeves. 

In a few moments I felt a slight warmth in my stomach--my body threw offsparks and flared up like a bank-bill in the flame of a candle; I wassubject to no law of nature; weight, bulk, opacity had entirelydisappeared. I retained my form, but it became transparent; flexible, fluid objects passed through me without inconveniencing me in the least;I could enlarge or decrease myself to suit any place I wished to occupy. I could transport myself at will from one place to another. I was in animpossible world, lighted by a gleam of azure grotto, in the centre of abouquet of fire-works formed of everchanging sheafs, luminous flowerswith gold and silver foliage, and calices of rubies, sapphires anddiamonds; fountains of melted moonbeams, throwing their spray overcrystal vases, which sang with voices like a harmonica the arias of thegreatest singers. A symphony of perfumes followed this firstenchantment, which vanished in a shower of spangles at the end of a fewseconds; the theme was a faint odor of iris and acacia bloom whichpursued, avoided, crossed and embraced each other with delicious easeand grace. If anything in this world can give you an approximative ideaof this exquisitely perfumed movement, it is the dance for the piccolosin the Almée of Felicien David. 

As the movement increased in sweetness and charm, the two perfumes tookthe shape of the flowers from which they emanated; two irises and twobunches of acacia bloomed in a marvellously transparent onyx vase; soonthe irises scintillated like two blue stars, the acacia flowersdissolved into a golden stream, the onyx vase assumed a female shape, and I recognised the lovely face and graceful form of Louise Guérin, butidealized, passed to the state of Beatrice; I am not certain that theredid not rise from her white shoulders a pair of angel's wings--she gazedso sadly and kindly at me that I felt my eyes fill with tears--sheseemed to regret being in heaven; from the expression of her face onemight have thought that she accused me, and at the same time entreatedmy forgiveness. 

I will not take you through the various windings of this marvellousopen-eyed dream; the monotonous harmony of the tarabouck and the rebekfaintly reached my ear, and served as rhythm to this wonderful poem, which will, henceforth, make Homer, Virgil, Ariosto and Tasso aswearisome to read as a table of logarithms. All my senses had changedplaces; I saw music and heard colors; I had new perceptions, as thedenizens of a planet superior to ours must have; at will, my body wascomposed of a ray, a perfume or a sweet savor; I experienced the ecstasyof the angels fused in divine light, for the effect of hashisch bears noresemblance whatever to that of wine and alcohol, by the use of whichthe people of the North debase and stupefy themselves; its intoxicationis purely intellectual. 

Little by little order was established in my brain. I began to observeobjects around me. 

The candles had burned down to the socket; the musicians slept, tenderlyembracing their instruments. The handsome negress lay at my feet. I hadtaken her for a cushion. A pale ray of light appeared on the horizon; itwas three o'clock in the morning. All at once a smoke-stack, puffingforth black smoke, crossed the bar; it was the _Ontario_ leaving itsmoorings. 

A confusion of voices was heard in the next room; my mother, having insome way learnt of my projected exile, had broken through Granson'sorders to admit no one, and was calling for me. 

I was rather mortified at being caught in such an absurd dress; but mymother observed nothing; she had but one thought, that I was about toleave her for ever. I do not remember what she said, such things cannotbe written, the endearments she bestowed upon me when I was only five orsix years old; finally she wept. I promised to stay and return to Paris. How can you refuse your mother anything when she weeps? Is she not theonly woman whom we can never reproach?

After all, as you have said, Paris is the wildest desert; there you arecompletely alone. Indifferent and unknown people may value sands andswamps. 

If my sorrow prove too tenacious, I shall ask my friend Arthur Gransonfor the address of the old Teriaki, and I shall send to Cairo for someboxes of forgetfulness. We will share them together if you wish. Farewell, dear Roger, I am yours mind and heart, EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XXXI. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isere). 

PARIS, July 30th 18--. 

O day of bliss unutterable! I have found her, it is she! As you haveopened your heart to my sadness, madame, open it to my joy. Forget theunhappy wretch who, a few days ago, abandoned himself to his grief, whoeven yesterday bade an eternal farewell to hope. That unfortunate hasceased to exist; in his place appears a young being intoxicated withlove, for whom life is full of delight and enchantment. How does ithappen that my soul, which should soar on hymns of joy, is filled withgloomy forebodings? Is it because man is not made for great felicity, orthat happiness is naturally sad, nearer akin to tears than to laughter, because it feels its fragility and instinctively dreads the approachingexpiation?

After having vainly searched for Mademoiselle de Chateaudun within thewalls of Rouen, M. De Monbert decided, on receipt of some newinformation, to seek her among the old châteaux of Brittany. My sorrow, feeding upon itself, counselled me not to accompany him. The fact isthat I could be of no earthly use in his search. Besides, I thought Iperceived that my presence embarrassed him. To tell the truth, we were aconstraint upon each other. Every sorrowful heart willingly believesitself the centre of the universe, and will not admit the existence, under heaven, of any other grief than its own. I let the Prince depart, and set out alone for Paris. One last hope remained; I persuaded myselfthat if Louise had not loved M. De Meilhan she would have left Richeportat the same time that I did. 

I got out at Pont de l'Arche, and prowled like a felon about the sceneswhere happiness had come to me. 

I wandered about for an hour, when I saw the letter-carrier coming tothe post-office for the letters to be delivered at the neighboringchâteaux. Paler and more tremulous than the silvery foliage of thewillows on the river shore, I questioned him and learned that MadameGuérin was still at Richeport. I went away with death in my heart; inthe evening I reach Paris. Resolved to see no one in that city, and onlyintending to pass a few days in solitude and silence, I sought no otherabode than the little room which I had occupied in less fortunate buthappier times. I wished to resume my old manner of living; but I had notaste for anything. When one goes in pursuit of happiness, the way issmiling and alluring, hope brightens the horizon; when we have clutchedit and then let it escape, everything becomes gloomy and disenchanted;for it is a traveller whom we do not meet twice upon our road. I triedto study, which only increased my weariness. What was the use ofknowledge and wisdom? Life was a closed book to me. I tried the poets, who added to my sufferings, by translating them into their passionatelanguage. Thus, reason is baffled by the graceful apparition of a lovelyblonde, who glided across my existence like a gossamer over a clear sky, and banished repose for ever from my heart! My eyes had scarcely restedupon the angle of my dreams ere she took flight, leaving on my brow theshadow of her wings! She was only a child, and that child had passedover my destiny like a tempest! She rested for a moment in my life, likea bird upon a branch, and my life was broken! In fact I lost all controlover myself. Young, free and rich, I was at a loss to know what to do. What was to become of me? Turn where I would, I still saw nothing aroundme but solitude and despair. During the day I mingled with the crowd andwandered about the streets like a lost soul; returning at nightovercome, but not conquered by fatigue. Burning sleeplessness besiegedmy pillow, and the little light no longer shone to comfort and encourageme. I no longer heard, as before, a caressing voice speaking to methrough the trees of the garden. "Courage, friend! I watch and sufferwith thee. " Finally, one night I saw the star peep forth and shine. Although I had no heart for such fancies, still I felt young and joyousagain, on seeing it. As before, I gazed at it a long time. Was it thesame, that, for two years, I had seen burn and go out regularly at thesame hour? It might be doubted; but I did not doubt it for a moment, because I took pleasure in believing it. I felt less isolated and gainedconfidence, now that my star had not deserted me. I called it my martyrwhen I spoke to it: "Whence comest thou? Hast thou too suffered? Hastthou mourned my absence a little?" And, as before, I thought it answeredme in the silence of the night. Towards morning I slept, and in a dream, I saw, as through a glass, Louise watching and working in a room as pooras mine, by the light of the well-beloved ray. She looked pale and sad, and from time to time stopped her work to gaze at the gleam of my lamp. When I awoke, it was broad day; and I went out to kill time. 

On the boulevard I met an old friend of my father's; he was refined, cultivated and affectionate. He had come from our mountains, to which hewas already anxious to return, for in their valleys he had buriedhimself. My dejected air and sorrowful countenance struck him. He gainedmy confidence, and immediately guessed at my complaint. "What are youdoing here?" he asked; "it is an unwholesome place for grief. Return toour mountains. Your native air will do you good. Come with me; I promiseyou that your unhappiness will not hold out against the perfume of broomand heather. " Then he spoke with tender earnestness of my duties. He didnot conceal from me the obligations my fortune and the position left meby my father, laid me under to the land where I was born; I hadneglected it too long, and the time had now come when I ought to occupymyself seriously with its needs and interests. In short, he made meblush for my useless days, and led me, gently and firmly, back toreality. At night-fall I returned to my little chamber, not consoled butstronger, and decided to set out on the morrow for the banks of theCreuse. I did not expect to be cured, but it pleased me to mingle thethought of Louise with the benefits that I could bestow, and to bringdown blessings upon the name which I had longed to offer her. 

I immediately remarked on entering, that my little beacon shone withunaccustomed brilliancy. It was no longer a thread of light gleamingtimidly through the foliage, but a whole window brightly illuminated, and standing out against the surrounding darkness. Investigating thecause of this phenomenon, I discovered that, during the day, the treeshad been felled in the garden, and peering out into the gloom, Iperceived, stretched along the ground, the trunk of the pine which, fortwo years, had hid from me the room where burned the fraternal light. Before departing, I should at least catch a glimpse of the mysteriousbeing, who, probably unconsciously, had occupied so many of my restlessthoughts. I could not control a sad smile at the thought of thedisenchantment that awaited me on the morrow. I passed in review thefaces which were likely to appear at that window, and as the absurd ismixed with almost every situation in life, I declare that thisbewildering question occurred to me: "Suppose it should be Lady Penock?"

I slept little, and arose at day-break. I was restless without daring toacknowledge to myself the cause. It would have mortified me to have toconfess that there was room beside my grief for a childish curiosity, apoetical fancy. What is man's heart made of? He bemoans himself, wraps acere-cloth around him and prepares to die, and a flitting bird or ashining light suffices to divert him. I watched the sun redden thehouse-tops. Paris still slept; no sound broke the stillness of theslumbering city, but the distant roll of the early carts over thestones. I looked long at the dear garret, which I saw for the first timein the eye of day. The window had neither shutter nor blind, but adouble rose-colored curtain hung before it, mingling its tint with thatof the rising sun. That window, with neither plants nor running vines toornament it, had an air of refinement that charmed me. The house itselflooked honest. I wrote several letters to shorten the slow hours whichwearied my patience. Every shutter that opened startled me, and sent theblood quickly back to my heart. My reason revolted against suckchildishness; but in spite of it, something within me refused to laughat my folly. 

After some hours, I caught a glimpse of a hand furtively drawing asidethe rose-colored curtains. That timid hand could only belong to a woman;a man would have drawn them back unceremoniously. She must, likewise, bea young woman; the shade of the curtains indicated it. Evidently, only ayoung woman would put pink curtains before a garret-window. Whereupon Irecalled to mind the little room where I had bade adieu to Louise beforeleaving Richeport. I lived over again the scene in that poetic nook;again I saw Louise as she appeared to me at that last interview, pale, agitated, shedding silent tears which she did not attempt to conceal. 

At this remembrance my grief burst all bounds, and spent itself inimprecations against Edgar and against myself. I sat a long time, withmy face buried in my hands, in mournful contemplation of an invisibleimage. Ah! unhappy man, I exclaimed, in my despair, why did you leaveher? God offered you happiness and you refused it! She stood there, before you, trembling, desperate, her eyes bathed in tears, awaiting butone word to sink in your arms, and that word you refused to utter, cowardly fleeing from her! It is now your turn to weep, unfortunatewretch! Your life, which has but begun, is now ended, and you will noteven have the supreme consolation of melancholy regrets, for the stingof remorse will for ever remain in your wound; you will be pursued toyour dying day by the phantom of a felicity which you would not seize!

When I raised my head, the garret-window had noiselessly opened, andthere, standing motionless in a flood of sunshine, her golden hairlifted gently by the morning breeze, was Louise gazing at me. 

Madame, try to imagine what I felt; as for me, I shall never be able togive it expression. I tried to speak, and my voice died away on my lips;I wished to stretch out my arms towards the celestial vision, theyseemed to be made of stone and glued to my side; I wished to rush toher, my feet were nailed to the floor. However, she still stood theresmiling at me. Finally, after a desperate effort, I succeeded inbreaking the charm which bound me, and rushed from my room wild withdelight, mad with happiness. I was mad, that's the word. Holy madness!cold reason should humble itself in the dust before thee! As quick asthought, by some magic, I found myself before Louise's door. I hadrecognised the house so long sought for before. I entered without aquestion, guided alone by the perfume that ascended from the sanctuary;I took Louise's hands in mine, and we stood gazing silently at eachother in an ecstasy of happiness fatally lost and miraculouslyrecovered; the ecstasy of two lovers, who, separated by a shipwreck, believing each other dead, meet, radiant with love and life, upon thesame happy shore. 

"Why, it was you!" she said at last, pointing to my room with a charminggesture. 

"Why, it was you!" I exclaimed in my turn, eagerly glancing at a littlebrass lamp which I had observed on a table covered with screens, boxesof colors and porcelain palettes. 

"You were the little light!"

"You were my evening star!"

And we both began to recite the poem of those two years of our lives, and we found that we told the same story. Louise began my sentences andI finished hers. In disclosing our heart secrets and the mysterioussympathy that had existed between us for two years, we interrupted eachother with expressions of astonishment and admiration. We paused timeand time again to gaze at each other and press each other's hands, as ifto assure ourselves that we were awake and it was not all a dream. Andevery moment this gay and charming refrain broke in upon our ecstasy:

"So you were the brother and friend of my poverty!"

"So you were the sister and companion of my solitude!"

We finally approached in our recollections, through many windings, ourmeeting upon the banks of the Seine, under the shades of Richeport. 

"What seems sad to me, " she said with touching grace, "is that afterhaving loved me without knowing me, you should have left me as soon asyou did know me. You only worshipped your idle fancies, and, had I lovedyou then, " she continued, "I should have been forced to be jealous ofthis little lamp. "

I told her what inexorable necessity compelled me to leave Richeport andher. Louise listened with a pensive and charming air; but when I came tospeak of Edgar's love, she burst out laughing and began to relate, inthe gayest manner, some story or other about Turks, which I failed tounderstand. 

"M. De Meilhan loves you, does he not?" I asked finally, with a vaguefeeling of uneasiness. 

"Yes, yes, " she cried, "he loves me to--madness!"

"He loves you, since he is jealous. "

"Yes, yes, " she cried again, "jealous as a--Mussulman. " and then shebegan to laugh again. 

"Why, " I again asked, "if you did not love him, did you stay atRicheport two or three days after I left?"

"Because I expected you to return, " she replied, laying aside herchildish gayety and becoming grave and serious. 

I told her of my love. I was sincere, and therefore should have beeneloquent. I saw her eyes fill with tears, which were not this time tearsof sorrow. I unfolded to her my whole life; all that I had hoped for, longed for, suffered down to the very hour when she appeared to me asthe enchanting realization of my youthful dreams. 

"You ask me, " she said, "to share your destiny, and you do not know whoI am, whence I come, or whither I go. "

"You mistake, I know you, " I cried; "you are as noble as you arebeautiful; you come from heaven, and you will return to it. Bear me withyou on your wings. "

"Sir, all that is very vague, " she answered, smilingly. 

"Listen, " said I. "It is true that I do not know who you are; but Iknow, I feel that falsehood has never profaned those lips, nor pervertedthe brightness of those eyes. Here is my hand; it is the hand of agentleman. Take it without fear or hesitation, that is all I ask. "

"M. De Villiers, it is well, " she said placing her little hand in mine. "And now, " she added, "do you wish to know my life?"

"No, " I replied, "you can tell me of it when you have given it to me. "

"But--"

"I have seen you, " said I; "you can tell me nothing. I feel that thereis a mystery in your existence, but I also feel that that mystery ishonorable, that you could only conceal a treasure. "

At these words an indefinable smile played around her lips. 

"At least, " she cried, "you know certainly that I am poor?"

"Yes, " I answered, "but you have shown yourself worthy of fortune, andI, on my part, hope that I have proved myself not altogether unworthy ofpoverty. "

The day glided imperceptibly by, enlivened with tender communings. Iexamined in all its details the room which my thoughts had so oftenvisited. It required considerable self-control to repress theinclination to carry to my lips the little lamp which had brought memore delight than Aladdin's ever could have done. I spoke of you, madame, mingling your image with my happiness in order to complete it. Itold Louise how you would love her, that she would love you too; shereplied that she loved you already. At evening we parted, and our joyouslamps burned throughout the night. 

In the midst of my bliss, I do not forget, madame, the interests thatare dear to you. Have you written to Mademoiselle de Chateaudun as Ibegged you to do? Have you written with firmness? Have you told youryoung friend that her peace and future are at stake? Have you pointedout to her the storm ready to burst over her head? When I left M. DeMonbert he was gloomy and irritated. Let Mademoiselle Chateaudun takecare!

Accept the expression of my respectful homage. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS. 

XXXII. 

RENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isere). 

Paris, Aug. 5th 18--. 

All of your letters have reached me at once. I received two yesterdayand one this morning, the latter being written first and dated at Berne. Ah! if it had reached me in due time, what distress I would have beenspared! What! he wrote you, "I love her, " and said nothing to me! Whenhe left me you know how unhappy he was, and I, who was made so miserableby his departure, I thought he was indifferent!

When I told you that I was about to sacrifice myself to console Madamede Meilhan, you must have thought me insane; I can see by your letterfrom Geneva, which I received yesterday, that you were dreadfullyalarmed about me. Cursed journey! Cursed mail! A letter lost might havedestroyed my happiness for ever! This letter was delayed on the roadseveral days, and, during these several days, I suffered more torturethan I ever felt during the most painful moments of my life. Theseuseless sorrows, that I might so easily have avoided, render meincredulous and trembling before this future of promised happiness. Ihave suffered so much that joy itself finds me fearful; and then thishappiness is so great that it is natural to receive it with sadness anddoubt. 

He told you of his delirious joy, on recognising me at the window; buthe did not tell you, he could not tell you, of my uneasiness, of mydreadful suspicions, my despair when I saw him in this garret. 

Our situations were not the same; what astonished and delighted him, also astonished and delighted me, but at the same time filled me withalarm. He believed me to be poor, discovered me in an attic; it wasnothing to be surprised at; the only wonderful thing about it was thatmy garret should be immediately opposite the house where he lived. . . . Iknew he was wealthy; I knew he was the Count de Villiers; I knew he wasof an old and noble family; I knew from his conversation that he hadtravelled over Italy in a manner suitable to his rank; I found him inRicheport, elegant and generous; he possesses great simplicity ofmanner, it is true, but it is the lordly simplicity of a great man. . . . In fact, everything I knew about him convinces me that his proper placewas not a garret, and that if I saw him there, I did not see him in hisown house. 

Remember, Valentine, that for two months I have lived upon deceptions; Ihave been disillusioned; I have inspired the most varied and excessivegriefs; I have studied the most picturesque consolations; I have seenmyself lamented at the Odeon, by one lover in a box with painted women, . . . And at Havre by another in a tavern with a slave. . . . I might now seemyself lamented at Paris by a third in a garret with a grisette! Oh!torture! in this one instant of dread, all the arrows of jealousyrankled in my heart. Oh! I could not be indignant this time, I could notcomplain, I could only die. . . . And I think that if I had not seen thepure joy beaming in his eyes, lighting up his noble countenance; if Ihad not instantly divined, comprehended everything, I believe I wouldhave dashed myself from the window to escape the strange agony that mademy heart cold and my brain dizzy--agony that I could not and would notendure. But he looked too happy to be culpable; he made a sign, and Isaw that he was coming over to see me. I waited for him--and in what astate! My hair was disarranged, and I called Blanchard to assist me inbrushing it; my voice was so weak she came running to me frightened, thinking me ill . . . A thousand confused thoughts rushed through mybrain; one thing was clear: I had found him again, I was about to seehim!

When I was dressed--oh! that morning little did I think I would need abecoming dress, . . . I sat on the sofa in my poor little parlor, andthere, pale with emotion, scarcely daring to breathe, I listened withburning impatience to the different noises about the house. In a fewmoments I heard a knock, the door open, a voice exclaim, "You, Monsieurle Comte!" He did not wait to be announced, but came in at once to theparlor where I was. He was so joyous at finding me, and I so delightedat seeing him, that for the first blissful moments of our meetingneither of us thought explanations necessary; his joy proved that he wasfree to love me, and my manner showed that I might be everything to him. When he found his voice, he said to me: "What! were you this cherishedstar that I have loved for two years?"

Then I remembered my momentary fears, and said: "What! were you themysterious beacon? Why were you living there? Why did the Comte deVilliers dwell in a garret?"

Then, dear Valentine, he told me his noble history; he confessed, ratherunwillingly, that he had been poor like myself; very poor, because hehad given all his fortune to save the honor of a friend, M. Frederick deB---- Oh! how I wept, while listening to this touching story, so full ofsublime simplicity, generous carelessness and self-sacrifice! This wouldhave made me adore him if I had not already madly loved him. While hewas telling me, I was thinking of the unfortunate Frederick's wife, ofher anxiety, of the torture she suffered, as a wife and a mother, whenshe believed her husband lost and her children ruined; of herastonishment and wild joy when she saw them all saved; of her deep, eternal gratitude! and I had but one thought, I said to myself: "How Iwould like to talk with this woman of Raymond!"

I wished in turn to relate my own history; he refused to listen to me, and I did not insist. I wished to be generous, and let him for some timelonger believe me to be poor and miserable. He was so happy at the ideaof enriching and ennobling me, that I had not the courage to disenchanthim. 

However, yesterday, I was obliged to tell him everything; in hisimpatience to hasten our marriage he had devoted the morning to thedrawing up of his papers, contracts and settlements; for two days he hadbeen tormenting me for my family papers in order to arrange them, and tofind the register of my birth, which was indispensable when he appearedbefore the mayor. I had always put off giving it to him, but yesterdayhe entreated me so earnestly, that I was compelled to assent. In orderto prepare him for the shock, I told him my papers were in my secretary, and that if he would come into my room he could see them. At the sightof the grand family pictures covering the walls of my retreat, he stoodaghast; then he examined them with uneasiness. Some of the portraitsbore the names and titles of the illustrious persons they represented. Upon reading the name, Victor Louis de Chateaudun, Marechal de France, he stopped motionless and looked at me with a strange air; then he read, beneath the portrait of a beautiful woman, the following inscription:"Marie Felicité Diane de Chateaudun, Duchesse de Montignan, " and turningquickly towards me, with a face deadly pale, he exclaimed: "Louise?""No, not Louise, but Irene!" I replied; and my voice rang with ancestralpride when I thus appeared before him in my true character. 

For a moment he was silent, and a bitter, sad expression came over hiscountenance, that frightened me. Then I thought, it is nothing but envy;it is hard for a man who knows he is generous to be outdone ingenerosity. It is disappointing, when he thinks he is bestowingeverything, to find he is about to receive millions; it is cruel, whenhe dreams of making a sacrifice like the hero of a novel, to findhimself constrained to destroy all the romance by conducting the affairon a business basis. But Raymond was more than sad, and his almostsevere demeanor alarmed my love, as well as my dignity . . . He crossed tothe other side of the room and sat down. I followed him, trembling withagitation, and my eyes filled with tears. 

"You no longer love me, " I said. 

"I dare not love the fiancée of my friend. "

"Don't mention M. De Monbert, nor your scruples, he would not understandthem. "

"But he told you he loved you, Mlle. , why did you leave him soabruptly?"

"I distrusted this love and wished to test it. "

"What is the result of the test?"

"He does not love me, and I despise him. "

"He does love you, and you ought to respect him. "

Then, in order to avoid painful explanations and self-justification, Ihanded him a long letter I had written to my cousin, in which I related, without telling her of my disguise, that I had seen the Prince deMonbert at the theatre, described the people whom he was with, and mydisgust at his conduct. I begged her to read this letter to the Princehimself, who is with her now--he has followed her to one of her estatesin Brittany; he would see from the decided tone of my letter, that myresolution was taken, that I did not love him, and that the best thinghe could do was to forget me. 

I had written this letter yesterday, under your inspiration, and to wardoff the imaginary dangers you feared. Rely upon it, my dear Valentine, M. De Monbert knows that he has acted culpably towards me; he might, perhaps, endeavor to prevent my marriage, but when he knows I am nolonger free, he will be compelled to resign himself to my loss; don't bealarmed, I know of two beautiful creatures whom he will allow to consolehim. A man really unhappy would not have confided the story of hisdisdained love to all his friends, valets and the detectives; he wouldnot hand over to idle gossip a dear and sacred name; a man who has norespect for his love, does not love seriously; he deserves neitherregard nor pity. I will write to him myself to-morrow, if you desire it;but as to a quarrel, what does he claim? I have never given him anyrights; if he threatens to provoke my husband to a duel, I have only tosay: "Take for your seconds Messrs. Ernest and George de S. , who wereintoxicated with you at the Odeon, " and he will blush with shame, andinstantly recognise how odious and ridiculous is his anger. 

I left Raymond alone in my room reading this letter, and I returned tothe saloon to weep bitterly. I could not bear to see him displeased withme; I knew he would accuse me of being trifling and capricious--the ideaof having offended him pierced my heart with anguish. I know not if theletter justified me in his eyes, whether he thought it honest anddignified, but as soon as he had finished reading it he called me:"Irene, " he said, and I trembled with sweet emotion on hearing him, forthe first time, utter my real name; I returned to the next room, he tookmy hand and continued: "Pardon me for believing, for a moment, that youwere capricious and trifling, and I forgive you for having made me actan odious part towards one of my friends. "

Then he told me in a tender voice that he understood my conduct, andthat it was right; that when one is not sure of loving her intended, orof being loved by him, she has a right to test him, and that it was onlyhonest and just. Then he smilingly asked me if I did not wish to tryhim, and leave him a month or two to see if I was beloved by him. 

"Oh! no, " I cried, "I believe in you. I do not wish to leave you. Oh!how can true lovers live apart from each other? How can they beseparated for a single day?"

I recalled what you told me when I abandoned M. De Monbert, andacknowledged that you were right when you said: "Genuine love isconfiding, it shuns doubt because it cannot endure it. "

This sad impression that he felt upon learning that Louise Guérin wasIrene de Chateaudun, was the only cloud that passed over our happiness. Soon joy returned to us lively and pure--and we spoke of you tenderly;he was the poor wounded man that gave you so much uneasiness; he was themodel husband you had chosen for me, and whom I refused with such proudscorn!

Ah! my good Valentine, how I thank you for having nursed him as asister; how noble and charming you were to him; I would like to rewardyou by having you here to witness our happiness. And you must thank theesteemed M. De Braimes for me, and my beautiful Irene, who taught him tolove my name, and brought him a bouquet every morning; and your handsomeHenri, the golden-haired angel, who brought him his little doves in yourwork-basket to take care of, while he studied his lessons. Embrace forme these dear children he caressed, who cheered his hours of suffering, whom I so love for his sake and yours. 

Will you not let me show my appreciation of my little goddaughter byrendering her independent of future accidents, enabling her withoutimprudence to marry for love?

I am so happy in loving that I can imagine it to be the only source ofjoy to others; yet this happiness is so great that I find myself askingif my heart is equal to its blessings; if my poor reason, wearied by somany trials, will have sufficient strength to support these violentemotions; if happiness has not, like misery, a madness. I endeavor whenalone to calm my excited mind; I sit down and try to quietly think overmy past life with that inflexibility of judgment, that analyzingpedantry, of which you have so often accused me. 

You remember, Valentine, more than once you have told me you saw in metwo persons, a romantic young girl and a disenchanted oldphilosopher. . . . Ah! well, to-day the romantic young girl has reached themost thrilling chapter of her life; she feels her weak head whirl at theprospect of such intoxicating bliss, and she appeals to the oldphilosopher for assistance. She tells him how this bliss frightens her;she begs him to reassure her about this beautiful future opening beforeher, by proving to her that it is natural and logical; that it is theresult of her past life, and finally that however great it may be, however extraordinary it may seem, it is possible, it is lasting, because it is bought at the price of humiliation, of sorrow, of trials!

Yes, I confess it, these happy events appear to be so strange, soimpossible, that I try to explain them, to calmly analyze them andbelieve in their reality. 

I recall one by one all my impressions of the last four years, and exertmy mind to discover in the strangeness, in the fatality, in theexcessive injustice of my past misfortunes, a natural explanation forextraordinary and incredible events of the present. The reversesthemselves were romantic and improbable, therefore the reparations andconsolations should in their turn be equally romantic. Is it an ordinarything for a young girl reared like myself in Parisian luxury, belongingto an illustrious family, to be reduced to the sternest poverty, andthrough family pride and dignity to conceal her name? Is not suchdignity, assailed by fate, destined sooner or later to vindicate itself?

You see that through myself I would have been restored to my rank. M. DeMeilhan wished to marry me without fortune or name. . . . Yesterday, M. DeVilliers knew not who I was; my uncle's inheritance has therefore beenof no assistance to me. I believe that native dignity will alwaysimperceptibly assert itself. I believe in the logic of events; order hasimperious laws; it is useless to throw statues to the ground, the timealways comes when they are restored to their pedestals. From my rank Ifell unjustly, unhappily. I must be restored to it justly. Every glaringinjustice has a natural consequent, a brilliant reparation, I havesuffered extraordinary misfortune; I have a right to realize idealhappiness. At twenty, I lost in one year my noble and too generousfather and my poor mother; it is only just that I should have a lover toreplace these lost ones. 

As to these violent passions which you pretend I have inspired, butwhich are by no means serious, I examine them calmly and find in theanalysis an explanation of many of the misfortunes, many of the mistakesof poor women, who are accused of inconstancy and perfidy, and who are, on the contrary, only culpable through innocence and honest faith. Theybelieve they love, and engage themselves, and then, once engaged, theydiscover that they are not in love. Genuine love is composed of twosentiments; we experience one of these when we believe we love; we areuneasy, agitated by an imperfect sentiment that seeks completion; westruggle in its feeble ties; we are neither bound nor free; not happy, nor at liberty to seek happiness at another source. . . . The oldphilosopher speaks--hear him. 

There are two kinds of love, social love and natural love; voluntarylove and involuntary love. An accomplished and deserving young man lovesa woman; he loves her, and deserves to be loved in return; she wishes tolove him, and when alone thinks of him; if his name is mentioned, sheblushes; if any one says in her presence, "Madame B. Used to be in lovewith him, " she is disturbed, agitated. These symptoms are certain proofsof the state of her heart, and she says to herself, "I love Adolphe, "just as I said, "I love Roger. " . . . But the voice of this man does notmove her to tears; his fiery glances do not make her turn pale or blush;her hand does not tremble in the presence of his. . . . She only feels forhim social love; there exists between them a harmony of ideas andeducation, but no sympathy of nature. 

The other love is more dangerous, especially for married women, whomistake remorse for that honest repugnance necessarily inspired in everywoman of refined mind and romantic imagination. 

I frankly confess that if I had been married, if I had no longer controlof my actions, I should have thought I was in love with Edgar. . . . Ishould have mistaken for an odious and culpable passion, the fearfultrouble, insupportable uneasiness that his love caused me to feel. Butmy vigilant reason, my implacable good faith watched over my heart; theysaid: "Shun Roger;" they said: "Fear Edgar. . . . " If I had married Roger, woe to me! Conventional love, leaving my heart all its dreams, wouldhave embittered my life. . . . But if, more foolish still, I had marriedEdgar, woe, woe to me! because one does not sacrifice with impunity toan incomplete love all of one's theories, habits and even weaknesses andearly prejudices. 

What enlightened me quickly upon the unreality of this love was theliberty of my position. Why being free should I fear a legitimate love?Strange mystery! wonderful instinct! With Roger, I sadly said to myself:"I love him, but it is not with love. " . . . With Edgar, I said in fright:"This is love, yet I do not love him. " And then when Raymond appeared, my heart, my reason, my faith at the first glance recognised him, andwithout hesitation, almost without prudence, I cried out, "It is he. . . . I love him. " . . . Now this is what I call real love, ideal love, harmonyof ideas and sympathy of hearts. 

Oh! it does me good to be a little pedantic; I am so excited, it calmsme; I am not so afraid of going crazy when I adopt the sententiousmanner. Ah! when I can laugh I am happy. Anything that for a momentchecks my wild imagination, reassures me. 

This morning we laughed like two children! You will laugh too; when Iwrite one name it will set you off; he said to me, "I must go to mycoachmaker's and see if my travelling carriage needs any repairs. " Isaid, "I have a new one; I will send for it, and let you see it. " In anhour my carriage was brought into the court-yard. With peals of laughterhe recognised Lady Penock's carriage. "Lady Penock! What! do you knowLady Penock? Are you the audacious young lover who pursued her until shewas compelled to sell me her carriage. " "Yes, I was the man. " Ah! howgay we were; he was the hero of Lady Penock, his was the little light, he was the wounded man, he was the husband selected for me! Ah! it allmakes me dizzy; and we shall set off to travel in this carriage. 

Ah! Lady Penock, you must pardon him. 

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN. 

XXXIII. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Porte Restante (Rouen). 

PARIS, Aug. 11th 18--. 

Here I am in Paris, gloomy, with nothing to do, not knowing how to fillup the void in my life, discontented with myself, ridiculous in my owneyes, alike in my love and in my despair. I have never felt so sad, sowretched, so cast-down. My days and nights are passed in endlessself-accusation: one by one I revise every word and action relating toLouise Guérin. I compose superb sentences which I had forgotten topronounce, the effect of which would have been irresistible. I tellmyself: "On such a day, you were guilty of a stupid timidity, whichwould have made even a college-boy laugh. " It was the moment for daring. Louise, unseen, threw you a look which you were too stupid tounderstand. The evening that Madame Taverneau was at Rouen, you allowedyourself to be intimidated like a fool, by a few grand airs, anaffectation of virtue over which the least persistence would havetriumphed. Your delicacy ruined you. A little roughness doesn't hurtsometimes, especially with prudes. You have not profited by a single oneof your advantages; you let every opportunity pass. In short, I am likea general who has lost a battle, and who, having retired to his tent, inthe midst of a field strewn with the dead and the dying marks out, toolate, a strategic plan which would have infallibly gained him thevictory!

What a pitiless monster an unsatiated desire is, tearing your heart withits sharp claws and piercing beak for want of other prey! The punishmentof Prometheus pales beside it, for the arrows of Hercules cannot reachthis unseen vulture! This is my first unsuccessful love; the firstfalcon that has returned to me without bringing the dove in his talons;I am devoured by an inexpressible rage; I pace my room like a wildbeast, uttering inarticulate cries; I do not know whether I love orhate Louise the most, but I should take infinite delight in stranglingher with her blonde tresses and trampling her, affrighted and suppliant, under my feet. 

My good Roger, I weary you with my lamentations; but whom can we weary, if not our friends? When will you return to Paris? Soon, I hope, sinceyou have ceased writing to me. 

I have gone back to the lady with the turban, passing nearly everyevening in the catafalque, which she calls her drawing-room. Thislugubrious habitation suits my melancholy. She finds me more gloomy, more Giaour-like, more Lara-like than usual; I am her hero, her god! orrather her demon, for she has now taken to the sorceries of the satanicschool! I assure you that she annoys me inexpressibly, and yet I feel asort of pleasure in being admired by her. It consoles my vanity forLouise's disdain, but not my heart. Alas! my poor heart, which stillbleeds and suffers. I caught a glimpse of Paradise through a half-opendoor. The door is shut, and I weep upon the threshold!

If Louise were dead, I might be calm; but she exists, and not forme--that thought makes life insupportable. I can think of nothing else, and I scarcely know whether the words I write to you make any sense. Ileave my letter unfinished. I will finish it this evening if I cansucceed in diverting myself, for a moment, from this despair whichpossesses me. 

Roger, something incredible has happened, overturning every calculation, every prevision. I am stupefied, benumbed--I was at the Marquise's, where it was darker than usual. One solitary lamp flickered in a corner, dozing under a huge shade. A fat gentleman, buried in an easy-chair, drowsily retailed the news of the day. 

I was not listening to him; I was thinking of Louise's little whitecouch, from which I had once lifted the snowy curtain; with thatsorrowful intensity, those poignant regrets which torture rejectedlovers. Suddenly a familiar name struck my ear--the name of Irene deChateaudun. I became attentive--"She is to be married to-morrow, "continued the well-posted gentleman, "to--wait a minute, I get confusedabout names and dates; with that exception, my memory is excellent--ayoung man, Gaston, Raymond, I am not certain which, but his first nameends in _on_ I am sure. "

I eagerly questioned the fat man; he knew nothing more; hastilyreturning to my rooms I sent Joseph out to obtain further information. 

My servant, who is quick and intelligent, and merits a master more givento intrigue and gallantry than I, went to the twelve mayors' offices. Hebrought me a list of all the banns that had been published. 

The news was true; Irene de Chateaudun marries Raymond. What does thatsignify? Irene your fiancée, Raymond our friend! What comedy of errorsis being played here? This, then, was the motive of these flights, thesedisappearances. They were laughing at you. It seems to me rather anaudacious proceeding. How does it happen that Raymond, who knew of yourprojected marriage with Mademoiselle de Chateaudun, should have steppedin your shoes? This comes of deeds of prowess à la Don Quixote, andrescues of old Englishwomen. 

Hasten, my friend, by railroad, post-horses, in the stirrup, onhippogriff's wing; what am I talking about? You will scarcely receive myletter ere the marriage has taken place. But I will keep watch for you. I will acquit myself of your revenge, and Mademoiselle Irene deChateaudun shall not become Madame Raymond de Villiers until I havewhispered that in her ear which will make her paler than her marriageveil. As to Raymond, I am not astonished at what he has done; I felttowards him at Richeport a hate which never deceives me and which Ialways feel towards cowards and hypocrites; he talked too much of virtuenot to be a scoundrel. I would I had the power to raze out from my lifethe time that I loved him. It is impossible to oppose this revoltingmarriage. How is it possible that Irene de Chateaudun, who was to enjoythe honor of being your wife, whom you had represented to me as a womanof high intelligence and lofty culture, could have allowed herself tobe impressed, after having known you, by the jeremiads of thissentimental sniveller? Since Eve, women have disliked all that is noble, frank and loyal; to fall is an unconquerable necessity of their nature;they have always preferred, to the voice of an honorable man, theperfidious whisper of the evil spirit, which shows its painted faceamong the leaves and wraps its slimy coils around the fatal tree. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XXXIV. 

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère). 

Paris, Aug. 11th 18--. 

This is probably the last letter that I shall ever write to you. Do notpity me, my fate is more worthy of envy than of pity. I never knew, Inever dreamed of anything more beautiful. It has been said time andagain that real life is tame, spiritless and disenchanted by the side ofthe fictions of the poets. What a mistake! There is a more wonderfulinventor than any rhapsodist, and that inventor is called reality. Itwears the magic ring, and imagination is but a poor magician comparedwith it. Madame, do not write to Mademoiselle de Chateaudun. Since youhave not done so my letters must necessarily have miscarried. Blessed bethe happy chance which prevented you from following my advice! What didI say to you? I was a fool. Be careful not to alarm my darling. The manhas lived long enough upon whom she has bestowed her love for one singleday. Do not write, it is too late; but admire the decrees of fate. Thediamond that I had sought with the Prince de Monbert, I have unwittinglyfound; I assisted in searching for it, while it was hid, unknown to me, in my heart. Louise is Irene. Madame Guérin is Mademoiselle deChateaudun. If you could have seen her delight in revealing heridentity! I saw her joyful and triumphant as if her love were not themost precious gift she could bestow. When she proclaimed herself, I feltan icy chill pass through me; but I thanked God for the bliss which Ishall not survive, so great that death must follow after. 

"Do you not love me well enough, " she said, "to pardon me my fortune?"

How was she to know that in revealing herself she had signed mydeath-warrant?

She spoke, laughingly, of M. De Monbert, as she had done of Edgar; toexcuse herself she related a story of disenchantment which you alreadyknow, madame. It would have been honorable in me, at this juncture, tohave undeceived Irene and enlightened her upon the Prince's passion. Idid so, but feebly. When happiness is offered us loaded with ball, wehave no longer the right to be generous. 

We are to be married privately to-morrow, without noise or display. Aplain-looking carriage will wait for us on the Place de la Madeleine;immediately on leaving the church we shall set out for Villiers. M. DeMeilhan is at Richeport. M. De Monbert is in Brittany. Eight days mustelapse before the news can reach them. Thus I have before me eight daysof holy intoxication. What man has ever been able to say as much?

Recall to mind the words of one of your poet friends; It is better todie young and restore to God, your judge, a heart pure and full ofillusions. Your poet is right; only it is more ecstatic to die in thearms of happiness, and to be buried with the flower of a love which hasnot yet faded. 

My love would never have followed the fatal law of common-placeaffection; years would never have withered it in their passage. But whatsignifies its duration, if we can crowd eternity into an hour? Whatsignifies the number of days if the days are full?

Nevertheless, I cannot refrain from regretting an existence whichpromises so much beauty. We would have been very happy in my littlechâteau on the Creuse. I was born for fireside joys, the delights ofhome. I already saw my beautiful children playing over my green lawns, and pressing joyfully around their mother. What exquisite pleasure to beable to initiate into the mysteries of fortune the sweet and noble beingwhom I then believed to be poor and friendless! I would take possessionof her life to make a long fête-day of it. What tender care would I notbestow upon so dear and charming a destiny! Downy would be her nest, warm the sun that shone upon her, sweet the perfumes that surroundedher, soft the breezes that fanned her cheek, green and velvety the turfunder her delicate feet! But a truce to such sweet dreams. I know M. DeMonbert; what I have seen of him is sufficient. M. De Meilhan, too, willnot disappoint me. I shall not conceal myself; in eight days these twomen will have found me. In eight days they will knock at my door, liketwo creditors, demanding restitution, one of Louise, the other of Irene. If I were to descend to justification, even if I were to succeed inconvincing them of my loyalty and uprightness, their despair would cryout all the louder for vengeance. Then, madame, what shall I do? Shall Itry to take the life of my friends after having robbed them of theirhappiness? Let them kill me; I shall be ready; but they shall see uponmy lips, growing cold in death, the triumphant smile of victorious love;my last sigh, breathing Irene's name, will be a cruel insult to theseunhappy men, who will envy me even in the arms of death. 

I neither believe nor desire that Irene should survive me. My soul, inleaving, will draw hers after it. What would she do here below, withoutme? You will see, that feeling herself gently drawn upward, she willleave a world that I no longer inhabit. I repeat, that I would not haveher live on earth without me. But sorrow does not always kill; youth isstrong, and nature works miracles. I have seen trees, struck bylightning, still stand erect and put forth new leaves. I have seenblasted lives drag their weary length to a loveless old age. I have seennoble hearts severed from their mates, slowly consumed by the wearinessof widowhood and solitude. If we could die when we have lost those welove, it would be too sweet to love. Jealous of his creature, God doesnot always permit it. It is a grace which he accords only to the elect. If, by a fatality not without precedent, Irene should have the strengthand misfortune to survive me, to you, madame, do I confide her. Care forher, not with the hope of consoling her, but to banish all bitternessfrom her regrets. Picture my death to her, not as the expiation of theinnocent whim of her youth, but as that of a happiness too great to gounchecked. Tell her that there are great joys as well as great sorrows, and that when they have outweighed the human measure of happiness, theheart which holds them must break and grow still. Tell her, ah! aboveall, tell her that I have dearly loved her, and if I carry her wholelife away with me, I leave her mine in exchange. Finally, madame, tellher that I died blessing her, regretting that I had but one life to laydown as the price of her love. 

While I write, I see her at her window, smiling, radiant, beautiful, beaming with happiness, resplendent with life and youth. 

Farewell, madame; an eternal farewell!

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS. 

XXXV. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Poste-Restante (Rouen). 

Paris, August 12th 18--. 

What I wrote you yesterday was very infamous and incredible. You thinkthat is all; well, no! you have only half of the story. My hand trembleswith rage so that I can scarcely hold my pen. What remains to be told isthe acme of perfidy; a double-dyed treason; we have been made game of, you as a plighted husband, I as a lover. All this seems as incoherent toyou as a dream. What can I have in common with Irene whom I have neverseen? Wait, you shall see!

My faithful Joseph discovered that the marriage was to take place at theChurch of the Madeleine, at six o'clock in the morning. 

I was so agitated, so restless, so tormented by gloomy presentimentsthat I did not go to bed. At the given hour I went out wrapped in mycloak. Although it is summer-time I was cold; a slight feverish chillran through me. The catastrophe to come had already turned me pale. 

The Madeleine stood out faintly against the gray morning sky. The lividfigures of some revellers, surprised by the day, were seen here andthere on the street corners. The stir of the great city had not yetbegun. I thought I had arrived too soon, but a carriage with neithercrest nor cipher, in charge of a servant in quiet livery, was stationedin one of the cross-streets that run by the church. 

I ascended the steps with uncertain footing, and soon saw, in one ofthose spurious chapels, which have been stuck with so much trouble inthat counterfeit Greek temple, wax lights and the motions of the priestwho officiated. 

The bride, enveloped in her veil, prostrated before the altar, seemed tobe praying fervently; the husband, as if he were not the mostcontemptible of men, stood erect and proud, his face beaming with joy. The ceremony drew to a close, Irene raised her head, but I was so placedas not to be able to distinguish her features. 

I leaned against a column in order to whisper in Irene's ear, as shepassed, a word as cutting as the crystal poniards of the bravos ofVenice, which break in the wound and slay without a drop of blood. Ireneadvanced buoyantly along, leaning on Raymond's arm, with an undulating, rhythmical grace, as if her feet trod the yielding clouds, instead ofthe cold stones of the aisle. She no longer walked the earth, herhappiness lifted her up; the ardor of her delight made me comprehendthose assumptions of the Saints, who soared in their ecstasy above thefloors of their narrow cells and caverns; she felt the deep delight of awoman who sacrifices herself. 

When she reached the column that concealed me, an electrical currentdoubtless warned her of my presence, for she shuddered as if struck byan unseen arrow, and quickly turned her head; a stray sunbeam lit up herface, and I recognised in Irene de Chateaudun, Louise Guérin; in therich heiress, the screen-painter of Pont de l'Arche!

Irene and Louise were the same person!

We have been treated as Cassandras of comedy; we have played in allseriousness the scene between Horace and Arnolphe. We have confided toeach other our individual loves, hopes and sorrows. It is very amusing;but, contrary to custom, the tragedy will come after the farce, and wewill play it so well that no one will be tempted to laugh at ourexpense; we will convert ridicule into terror. Ah! Mademoiselle Irene deChateaudun, you imagined that you could amuse yourself with two such menas the Prince de Moubert and Edgar de Meilhan! that there it would end, and you had only to say to them: "I love another better!" And you, Master Raymond, thought that your virtuous reputation would make yourperfidy appear like an act of devotion! No, no, in the drama where thegreat lady was an adventuress, the artless girl a fast woman, the heroa traitor, the lover a fool, and the betrothed husband a Geronte, therôles are to be changed. 

A hoarse cry escaped me, Irene clung convulsively to Raymond's arm, andprecipitately left the church. Raymond, without understanding thissudden flight, yielded to it and rapidly descended the steps. Thecarriage was in waiting; they got into it; the coachman whipped up hishorses and soon they were out of sight. 

Irene, Louise, whatever may be your name or your mask, you shall notlong remain Madame de Villiers; a speedy widowhood will enable you tobegin your coquetries again. I regret to be compelled to strike youthrough another, for _you_ merit death. 

EDGAR BE MEILHAN. 

XXXVI. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR LE COMTE DE VILLIERS, Au Château de Villiers (Creuse). 

August 16th 18--. 

MONSIEUR, --

I take pleasure in sending you, by way of apologue, an anecdote, whichyou may read with profit. 

During my travels I met with an estimable man, a Creole of the colony ofPort Natal, by the name of Smollet. 

I sometimes hunted in the neighborhood of his place, and on twooccasions demanded his hospitality. He received me in a dubious manner, admitted me to his table, scarcely spoke to me; served me withConstantia wine, refused to accept my proffered hand, and surrendered mehis own couch to rest my wearied limbs upon. From Port Natal I wrotethis savage two notes of thanks, commencing: _My dear friend_--inwriting, I could not confer on him a title of rank, so I gave him one ofaffection: _My dear friend_. My letters were ignored--as I had askednothing, there was nothing to answer. One evening I met the Creolewalking up the avenue of Port Natal, and advanced towards him, and heldout my hand in a friendly way. Once more he declined to accept it. Myvexation was apparent: "Monsieur, " said the savage, "you appear to be anhonest, sincere young man, very unlike a European. I must enlighten andwarn your too unsuspecting mind. You have several times called me _yourdear friend_. Doing this might prove disastrous to you, and then I wouldbe in despair. I am not your friend; I am the friend of no one. . . . Avoidme, monsieur; shun my neighborhood, shun my house. Withdraw theconfidence, that with the carelessness of a traveller you have reposedin me. . . . Adieu!" This _adieu_ was accompanied by a sinister smile and asavage look that were anything but reassuring to me. I afterwardsdiscovered that the Creole Smollet was a professional bandit!!

I hope, Monsieur de Villiers, that the application of this apologue willnot escape you. At all events, I will add a few lines to enlighten yourunsophisticated mind. You have always been my friend, monsieur. You havenever disclaimed this relation; you have always pressed my hand when wemet. Your professed friendship justified my confidence, and it wouldhave been ungrateful in me to have esteemed you less than I did thesavage. You and Mad. De Braimes have cunningly organized against me aplot of the basest nature. Doubtless you call it a happy combination offorces--I call it a perfidious conspiracy. I imagine I hear you and Mad. De Braimes at this very moment laughing at your victim as youcongratulate yourselves on the success of your machinations. It affordsme pleasure to think that one of these two friends is, perhaps, a man. Were they both women I could not demand satisfaction. You deserve mygratitude for your great kindness in assisting me when I most needed afriend. When I sought Mlle, de Chateaudun with a foolish, blind anxiety, you charitably aided me in my efforts to find her. You were my guide, mycompass, my staff; you led me over roads where Mlle, de Chateaudun neverthought of going; your guidance was so skilful that at the end of mysearches you alone found what we had both been vainly seeking. You musthave been delighted and entertained at the result, monsieur! Did Mad. DeBraimes laugh very much? Truly, monsieur, you are old beyond your years, and your education was not confined to Greek and Latin; your talent foracting has been cultivated by a profound study of human nature. You playhigh comedy to perfection, and you should not let your extreme modestyprevent your aspiring to a more brilliant theatre. It is a pity thatyour fine acting should be wasted upon me alone. You deserve a largerand more appreciative audience! You do not know yourself. I will hold amirror before your eyes; you can affect astonishment, disinterestedness, magnanimity, and a constellation of other virtues, blooming like flowersin the gardens of the golden age. You are a perfected comedian. If youreally possessed all the virtues you assume, you would, like Enoch, excite the jealousy of Heaven, and be translated to your proper sphere. A man of your transcendent virtue would be a moral scourge in ourcorrupt society. He would, by contrast, humiliate his neighbors. Inthese degenerate days such a combination of gifts is antagonistic tonature. 

Do relieve our anxiety by accepting the title of comedian. Acknowledgeyourself to be an actor, and our anxious fears are quieted. 

I would have my mind set at rest upon one more point. Courage is anothervirtue that can be assumed by a coward, and it would afford me greatpleasure to see you act the part of a _brave_ comedian. 

While waiting for your answer I feel forced to insult you by thinkingthat this last talent is wanting in your rich repertory. Be kind enoughto deny this imputation, and prove yourself to be a thoroughlyaccomplished actor. 

Your admiring audience, ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XXXVII. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ COUNT DE VILLIERS, Château de Villiers, via Guéret (Creuse). 

PARIS, Aug. 16th 18--. 

Noble hidalgo, illustrious knight of la Mancha; you who are so fond ofadventures and chivalric deeds, I am about to make you a propositionwhich, I hope, will suit your taste: a fight with sharp weapons, be itlance, or axe, or dagger; a struggle to the death, showing neither pitynor quarter. I know beforehand what you are going to say: Your nativegenerosity will prevent you from fighting a duel with your friend. Inthe first place, I am not your friend; traitors have not that honor. Donot let that scruple stop you, refined gentleman. 

Your mask has fallen off, dear Tartuffe with the fine feelings. We nowknow to what figures you devote yourself. Before dragging English womenout of the flames you are well aware of their social position. You savefriends from bankruptcy at a profit of eighty per cent. , and when youmake love to a grisette, you have her crest and the amount of her incomein your pocket. In coming to my house, you knew that Louise was Irene. Madame de Braimes had acquainted you with all the circumstances duringyour interesting convalescence. All this may seem very natural to othersand to a virtuous mortal, a Grandison like yourself. But I thinkdifferently; to me your conduct appears cowardly, base and contemptible. I should not be able to control myself, but would endeavor to make youcomprehend my opinion of you, by slapping you in the face, wherever Imet you. I hope that you will spare me such a disagreeable alternativeby consenting to _pose_ for a few moments before my sword or pistol, asyou please. Allow me to entreat you not to exhibit any grandeur of soul, by firing in the air, it would not produce the slightest effect upon me, for I should kill you like a dog. Your presence upon the earth annoysme, and I do not labor for morality in deeds myself. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

XXXVIII. 

COMTE DE VILLIERS _to_ MESSRS. ROGER DE MONBERT _and_EDGAR DE MEILHAN, VILLIERS, Aug 18th 18--. 

Let us drop such language unworthy of you and of me. We are gentlemen, of military descent; our fathers when they did each other the honor thatyou offer me, challenged, but did not insult each other. If the affairwere equal, if I had only one to contend with, perhaps I might attemptto bring him to reason There are two of you; come on, I await you. 

COMTE DE VILLIERS XXXIX. 

VILLIERS, August 21st 18--. 

For two days I have been trying to answer your letter, my dearValentine, but I am so uneasy, nervous and excited that I dare notcommit to paper my wild and troubled thoughts; I am still sane enough toaccuse myself of madness, but dread to prove it. Were I to write downall the strange ideas that rush through my mind, and then read themover, conviction of insanity would stare me in the face. 

I was right when I told you it was a risk to accept such a wealth ofhappiness; my sweet enchantment is disturbed by dark threateningclouds--danger lurks in the air--the lightest word fills me withuneasiness--a letter written in a strange hand--an unexpected visitor, who leaves Raymond looking preoccupied--everything alarms me, and hegently chides me and asks why I look so sad. I say because I am toohappy; but he thinks this a poor reason for my depression, and to divertmy thoughts he walks with me through the beautiful valleys and tells meof his youth and the golden dreams of his early manhood, and assures methat his dreams of happiness are realized beyond his most exaltedhopes--that he did not believe the angels would permit so perfect abeing as myself to dwell on earth--that to be loved by me for a day, foran hour, he would willingly give up his life, and that such a sacrificewas a small price for such a love. I dared not mar his happiness bygiving expression to my sad fears. His presence allays my apprehensions;he has so much confidence in the future that I cannot help beinginspired with a portion of it; thus, when he is near me, I feel happyand reassured, but if he leaves me for a moment I am beset by myriads ofterrible threatening phantoms. I accuse myself of having been imprudentand cruel; I fear I have not, as you say, inspired two undying passions, two life-long devotions, but exasperated two vindictive men. I well knowthat M. De Monbert did not love me, and yet I fear his unjustresentment. I recall Edgar's absurd breach of faith, and Edgar, whoseimage had until now only seemed ridiculous, Edgar appears before mytroubled vision furious and threatening. I am haunted by a vagueremembrance: The day of my wedding, after the benediction, as we wereleaving the chapel, I was terribly frightened--in the silent gloom ofthe immense church I heard a voice, an angry stifled voice, utter myname . . . The name I bore at Pont de l'Arche--Louise!. . . I quickly turnedaround to see whence came this voice that could affect me so powerfullyat such a moment! I could discover no one. . . . Louise!. . . Many women arecalled Louise, it is a common name--perhaps it was some father callinghis daughter, or some brother his sister. There was nothing remarkablein the calling of this name, and yet it filled me with alarm. I recalledEdgar's looks on that evening he was so angry with me; the rage gleamingin his eyes; the violent contraction of his features, his voice terribleand stifled like the voice in the church, and I was now convinced thathis love was full of haughty pride, selfishness and hatred. But I saidto myself, if it had been he, he would have followed me and looked inour carriage--I would have seen him in the church, or on the porticooutside. . . . Besides, why should he have come?. . . He had given up seeingme; he could easily have found me had he so desired; he knew whereMadame Taverneau's house was in Paris, and he knew that I lived withher; if he had hoped to be received by me, he would have simply calledto pay a visit. . . . Finally, if he was at this early hour--six in themorning--in the church, at so great a distance from where I live, it wasnot to act as a spy upon me. The man who called Louise was not Edgar--itcould not have been Edgar. This reflection reassured me. I questionedRaymond; he had seen no one, heard no one. I remembered that M. DeMeilhan was not in Paris, and tried to convince myself that it wasfoolish to think of him any more. But yesterday I learned in a letterfrom Madame Taverneau--who as yet knows nothing of my marriage ordeparture from Paris, and will not know, until a year has elapsed, ofthe fortune I have settled upon her--I learned that M. De Meilhan leftHavre and came direct to Paris. His mother did not tell him that I hadgone with her to bring him home. When she found that her own influencewas sufficient to detain him in France, she was silent as to my share inthe journey. I thank her for it, as I greatly prefer he should remainignorant of the foolish idea I had of sacrificing myself at his shrinein order to make his mother happy. But what alarms me is that she keepshim in Paris because she knows that he will learn the truth atRicheport, and because she hopes that the gayeties around him will morequickly make him forget this love that so interfered with her ambitiousprojects. So Edgar _was_ in Paris the day of my wedding . . . And perhaps. . . But no, who could have told him anything? I lived three miles fromthe parish where I was married. . . . It could not have been he . . . And yetI fear that man. . . . I remember with what bitterness and spite he spoketo me of Raymond, in a letter, filled with unjust reproaches, that hewrote me three days after my departure from Richeport. In this letter, which I immediately burned, he told me that M. De Villiers was engagedto be married to his cousin. O how wretched this information made me! Ithad been broken off years ago, but M. De Villiers thought the engagementstill existed; he spoke of it as a tie that would prevent his friendfrom indulging in any pretensions to my favor; and yet what malevolencethere was in his praise of him, what jealous fear in his insolentsecurity! How ingenuously he said: "Since I have no cause to fear him, why do I hate him?" I now remember this hatred, and it frightens me. Aided by Roger he will soon know all; he will discover that Irene deChateaudun and Louise Guérin are the same person, and then two furiousmen will demand an explanation of my trifling with their feelings andreproach me with the duplicity of my conduct. . . . Valentine, do you thinkthey could possibly act thus? Valentine! do you think these two men, whohave so shamefully insulted my memory, so grossly betrayed me and provedthemselves disgracefully faithless, would dare lay any claims to mylove? Alas! in spite of the absurdity of such a supposition, Heavenknows they are fully capable of acting thus; men in love have suchrelaxed morality, such elastic consciences!

Under pretext of imaginary ungovernable passions, they indulge, withoutcompunction, in falsehood, duplicity and the desecration of everyvirtue!. . . And yet think a pure love can condone and survive suchunpardonable wrongs. They lightly weigh the tribute due to therefinement of a woman's heart. Their devotion is characterized by asingular variety. The loyal love of noble women is sacrificed to pleasethe whims of those unblushing creatures who pursue such men withindelicate attentions and enslave them by flattering their inordinatevanity, and they, to preserve their self-love unhurt, pierce andmortally wound the generous hearts that live upon their affection andrevere their very names--these they strike without pity and withoutremorse. And then when the tender love falls from these broken hearts, like water from a shattered vase, never to be recovered, they areastonished, uneasy, . . . They have broken the heart filled with love, andnow, with stupid surprise and pretended innocence, they ask what hasbecome of the love!. . . They cowardly murdered it, and are indignant thatit dared to die beneath their cruel blows. But why dwell upon Edgar andhis anger and hatred, of Roger and his fury? Fate needs not theseterrible instruments to destroy our happiness; the slightest accident, the most trifling imprudence can serve its cruelty; every thing willassist it in taking vengeance upon a man revelling in too much love, toomuch love. The cold north wind blowing at night upon his heated brow maystrike him with the chill of death; the bridge may perfidiously breakbeneath his feet and cast him in the surging torrent below; a loftyrock, shivered by the winter frost, may fall upon him and crush him toatoms; his favorite horse may be frightened at a shadow and hurl himover the threatening precipice . . . That child playing in front of mywindow might carelessly strike him on the temple with one of thosepebbles and kill him. . . . 

Oh! Valentine, I am not laboring under an illusion. I see danger; theworld revolts against pure, unalloyed happiness; society pursues it asan offence; nature curses it because of its perfection; to her everyperfect thing seems a monstrosity not to be borne--directly she suspectsits existence, she gives the alarm and the elements unite in conspiringagainst this happiness; the thunder-bolt is warned and holds itself inreadiness to burst over the radiant brow. With human beings all the evilpassions are simultaneously aroused: secret notice, unknown voices warnthe envious people of every nation that there is somewhere a great joyto be disturbed; that in some corner of the earth two beings exist whosought and found each other--two hearts that love with ideal equalityand intoxicating harmony. . . . Chance itself, that careless railer, isoverbearing and jealous towards them; it is angry with these two beingswho voluntarily sought and conscientiously chose each other withoutwaiting for it to confer happiness upon them--it discovers their names, that never knows the name of any one, and pursues them with itsanimosity; it recovers its sight in order to recognise and strike them. I feel that we are too happy! Death stares us in the face! My soulshudders with fear! On earth we are not allowed to taste of supremedelight--pure, unalloyed happiness--to feel at once that ecstasy of souland delirium of passion--that pride of love and loftiness of a pureconscience . . . Burning joys are only permitted to culpable love. Whentwo unfortunate beings, bound by detested ties, meet and mutuallyrecognise the ideals of their dreams, they are allowed to love eachother because they have met too late, because this immense joy, thisfinding one's ideal, is poisoned by remorse and shame. Their criminalhappiness can remain undisturbed because it is criminal; it has theconditions of life, frailty and misery; it bears the impress of sin, therefore it belongs to a common humanity. . . . But find ideal bliss in alegitimate union, find it in time to welcome it without shame andcherish it without remorse; be happy as a lover and honored as a wife;to experience the wild ardor of love and preserve the charming freshnessof purity--to delight in obeying the equitable law of the mostharmonious love by being alternately a slave and a queen; to call uponhim who calls upon you; seek him who seeks you; love him who lovesyou--in a word, to be the idol of your idol!. . . It is too much, itsurpasses human happiness, it is stealing fire from heaven--it is, Itell you, incurring the punishment of death!

In my enthusiasm I already stand upon the boundary of the true world---I have a glimpse of paradise; earth recedes from my gaze; I understandand expect death, because life has bid me a last farewell--theexaltation that I feel belongs to the future of the blessed; it is atriumphant dying--that final and supremely happy thought that tells memy soul is about to take its flight. 

Oh! merciful God! my brain is on fire! and why do I write you theseincoherent thoughts! Valentine, you see all excessive emotions arealike; the delirium of joy resembles the frenzy of despair. Havingattained the summit of happiness, what do we see at our feet?. . . Ayawning abyss!. . . We have lost the steep path by which we so painfullyreached the top; once there, we have no means of gradually descendingthe declivity . . . From so great a height we cannot walk, we fall!

There is but one way of preserving happiness--abjure it--never welcomeit; sometimes it delights in visiting ungrateful people. Vainly do Iseek to reassure myself by expiation, by sacrifices; during these eightdays I have been lavishly giving gold in the neighborhood, I haveendowed all the children, fed the poor, enriched the hospitals; I wouldwillingly ruin myself by generous charity, by magnificent donations--Iwould cheerfully give my entire fortune to obtain rest and peace for mytroubled mind. 

Every morning I enter the empty church and fervently pray that God willpermit me by some great sacrifice to insure my happiness. I implore himto inflict upon me hard trials, great humiliations, intense pain, sufferings beyond any strength, but to have mercy upon my poor heart andspare me Raymond . . . To leave me a little longer Raymond, . . . 

Raymond and his love!

But these tears and prayers will be vain--Raymond himself, withoutunderstanding his presentiments, instinctively feels that his end isapproaching. His purity of soul, his magnanimity, the unexampleddisinterestedness of his conduct, are indications--these sublime virtuesare symptoms of death--this generosity, this disinterestedness are tacitadieux. Raymond possesses none of the weaknesses of men destined for along life; he has indulged in none of the wicked passions of the age--hehas kept himself apart, observing but not sharing the actions of men. Heregards life as if he were a pilgrim, and takes no part in any of itsturmoils--he has not bargained for any of its disenchantments; his greatpride, his life-long, unbending loyalty have concealed a mournfulsecret; he has stood aloof because he was convinced of his untimely end. He feels self-reliant because he will only have a short time tostruggle; he is joyous and proud, because he looks upon the victory asalready won . . . I weep as I admire him. 

Alas! am I to regard with sorrow and fear these noble qualities--theseseductive traits that won my love? Is it because he deserves to be lovedmore than any being on earth has ever been loved, that I tremble forhim! Valentine, does not such an excess of happiness excite your pity?

Ever since early this morning, I have been suffering torment--Raymondleft me for a few hours--he went to Guéret; one of his cousins returningfrom the waters of Néris was to pass through there at ten o'clock, andrequested him to meet her at the hotel. Nothing is more natural, and Ihave no reason to be alarmed--yet this short absence disturbs me as muchas if it were to last years--it makes me sad--it is the first time wehave been separated so long a time during these eight blissful days. 

Ah! how I love him, and how heavy hangs time on my hands during hisabsence!

One thought comforts me in my present state of exaltation; I am unequalto any great misfortune. . . . A fatal piece of news, a painful sight, afalse alarm . . . A certain dreaded name mingled with one that Iadore--ah! a false report, although immediately contradicted, wouldkill me on the spot--I could not live the two minutes it would requireto hear the denial--the truth happily demonstrated. This thoughtconsoles me--if my happiness is to end, I shall die with it. 

Valentine, it is two o'clock! Oh! why does Raymond not return? My heartsinks--my hand trembles so that I can scarcely hold the pen--my eyesgrow dim. . . . What can detain him? He left at eight, and should havereturned long ago. I know well that the relative he went to see mighthave been delayed on the road--she may have mistaken the time, women areso ignorant about travelling--they never understand the timetables. 

All this tells me I am wrong to be uneasy--and yet . . . I shudder atevery sound. . . . His horse is so fiery. . . . I am astonished that Raymonddid not let me read his relative's letter; he said he had left it on histable . . . But I looked on the table and it was not there. I wished toread the letter so as to find out the exact time he was to be at Guéret, and then I could tell when to expect him home. 

But this relative is the mother of the girl he was to have married. . . . Perhaps she still loves him. . . . Is she with her mother?. . . Ah! what anabsurd idea! I am so uneasy that I divert my mind by being jealous--toavoid thinking of possible dangers, I conjure up impossible ones. . . . Oh!my God! it is not his love I doubt . . . His love equals mine--it is theintensity of his love that frightens me--it is in this love so pure, soperfect, so divine--in this complete happiness that the danger lies. Isit not sinful to idolize one of God's creatures, when this adoration isdue to God alone--to devote one's whole existence to a human being, forhis sake to forget everything else? This is the sin before Heaven . . . 

Oh! if I could only see him, and once more hear his voice! That blessedvoice I love so much! How miserable I am!. . . What agony I suffer!. . . Istifle . . . My brain whirls--my mind is so confused that I cannot think. . . This torture is worse than death . . . And then if he should suddenlyappear before me, what joy!. . . Oh! I don't wish him to enter the roomat once--I would like one minute to prepare myself for the happiness ofseeing him . . . One single moment. . . . If he were to abruptly enter, Iwould become frantic with joy as I embraced him!

My dear Valentine, what a torment is love!. . . It is utterly impossiblefor me to support another hour of this agitation. I am sure I have afever--I shiver with cold--I burn--my brain is on fire. . . . 

As I write this to you, seated at the window, I eagerly watch the longavenue by which he must return. . . . I write a word . . . A whole line so asto give him time to approach, hoping I will see him coming when I raisemy eyes--. . . . After writing each line I look again. . . . Nothing appearsin the distance; I see neither his horse nor the cloud of dust thatwould announce his approach. The clock strikes! three o'clock!. . . Valentine! it is fearful . . . Hope deserts me . . . All is lost . . . I feelmyself dying . . . Instinct tells me that some dreadful tragedy, ruinousto me, is now enacting on this earth. . . . Ah! my heart breaks . . . Isuffer torture. . . . Raymond! Raymond! Valentine! my mother! help!. . . Help!. . . I see a horse rushing up the avenue . . . But it is not Raymond's. . . Ah! it _is_ his . . . But . . . I don't see Raymond . . . The saddle isempty . . . God!

This unfinished letter of the Comtesse de Villiers to Madame de Braimesbore neither address nor signature. 

XL. 

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR EDGAR DE MEILHAN, Hotel de Bellevue, Bruxelles (Belgique). 

You are now at Brussels, my dear Edgar, at least for my own peace ofmind I hope so. Although I fear not for you the rigors of the law, stillI am anxious to know that you are on a safe and hospitable shore. 

Criminal trials, even when they have a favorable issue, are injurious. In your case it is necessary to keep concealed, await the result ofpublic opinion, and let future events regulate your conduct. Besides, asthere is no law about duelling, you must distrust the courts of justice. The day will come when some jury, tired of so many acquittals, willagree upon a conviction. Your case may be decided by this jury--so it isonly prudent for you to disappear, and abide the issue. 

Things have entirely changed during my ten years' absence; all this isnew to me. Immediately after the duel I obeyed your instructions, andwent to see your lawyer, Delestong. With the exception of a fewomissions, I was obliged to relate everything that happened. I must tellyou exactly what I said and what I left unsaid, so that if we aresummoned before the court our testimony shall not conflict. 

It was unnecessary to relate what passed between us before the duel, soI merely said we had drawn lots as to who should be the avenger, and whothe second; nor did I deem it proper to explain the serious causes ofthe duel, as it would have resulted in a long story, and the bringing inof women's names at every turn, an unpardonable thing in a man. I simplysaid the cause was serious, and of a nature to fully justify a deadlymeeting; that we, Monsieur de Meilhan and myself, left Guéret at sixo'clock in the morning; when three miles from the town, we left thehigh-road of Limoges and entered that part of the woods called theLittle Cascade, where we dismounted and awaited the arrival of M. DeVilliers, who, in a few minutes, rode up to us, accompanied by twoarmy-officers as seconds. We exchanged bows at a distance of ten feet, but nothing was said until the elder of the officers advanced towardsme, shook my hand, and drawing me aside, began: "We military men darenot refuse to act on this occasion as seconds when summoned by a braveman, but we always come with the hope of effecting a reconciliation. These young men are hot-headed. There is some pretty woman at the rootof the difficulty, and they are acting the rôles of foolish rivals. Theday has passed for men to fight about such silly things; it is no longerthe fashion. Now, cannot we arrange this matter satisfactorily, withoutinjuring the pride of these gentlemen?"

"Monsieur, " I replied, "it is with profound regret that I decline makingany amicable settlement of this affair. Under any other circumstances Iwould share your peaceable sentiments; as it is, we have come here witha fixed determination. If you knew--"

"Do tell me the provocation--I am very anxious to learn it, " said theofficer, interrupting me, eagerly. 

"You ask what is impossible, " I replied; "nothing could alter ourdetermination. We fully made up our minds before coming here. "

"That being the case, monsieur, " said he, "my friend and I willwithdraw; we decline to countenance a murder. "

"If you retire, captain, " I responded, pressing his hand, "I will alsoleave, and not be answerable for the result--and what will be theconsequence? I can assure you, upon my honor, that these gentlemen willfight without seconds. "

The officer bowed and waved his hand, in sign of forced acquiescence. After a short pause, he continued: "We have entered upon a verydistasteful affair, and the sooner it is ended the better. Have theydecided upon the weapons?"

"They have decided, monsieur, to draw lots for the choice of arms, " Ireplied. 

"Then, " he cried, "there has been no insult given or received; they areboth in the right and both in the wrong. "

"Exactly so, captain. "

"I suppose we will have to consent to it. Let us draw for the weapons, since it is agreed upon. "

The lot fell on the sword. 

"With this weapon, " I said, "all the disadvantages are on the side of M. De Meilhan; the skilful fencing of his adversary is celebrated amongamateurs. He is one of Pons's best scholars. "

"Have you brought a surgeon?" said the captain. 

"Yes, monsieur, we left Dr. Gillard in a house near by. "

As you see, dear Edgar, I shall lay great stress upon the disadvantagesyou labored under in using the sword; and, when necessary, I shallexpress in eloquent terms the agony I felt when I saw your hand, moreskilful in handling the pen than the sword, hesitatingly grasp the hilt. 

I finished my deposition in these words: "When the distance had beensettled, by casting lots, we handed our principals two swords exactlyalike; one of the adverse seconds and myself stood three steps off withour canes raised in order to separate them at all risk, if necessary, inobedience to the characteristically French injunction of the duellingcode as laid down by M. Chateunvillard. 

"At the given signal the swords were bravely crossed; Edgar, with theboldness of heroic inexperience, bravely attacked his adversary. Raymond, compelled to defend himself, was astonished. At this terriblemoment, when thought paralyzes action, he was absorbed in thought. Thecontest was brief. Edgar's sword, only half parried, pierced his rival'sheart. The surgeon came to gaze upon a lifeless corpse. 

"Edgar mounted his horse, rode off and I have not seen him since. Thosewho remained rendered the last offices to the dead. "

I am obliged to write you these facts, my dear Edgar, not forinformation, but to recall them to you in their exact order; andespecially, I repeat, in order to avoid contradiction on thewitness-stand. Now I must write you of what you are ignorant. 

I had a duty to fulfil, much more terrible than yours, and I was obligedto recall our execrable oath in order to renew courage and strength tokeep my promise. 

Before we had cast lots for the leading part in this duel, we swore togo ourselves to the house of this woman and announce to her the issue ofthe combat, if it proved favorable to us. In the delirium of angryexcitement, filling our burning hearts at the moment, this oath appearedto be the most reasonable thing in the world. Our blood boiled with suchviolent hatred against him and her that it seemed just for vengeance, with refined cruelty, to step over a corpse and pursue its work ere itssecond victim had donned her widow's robes. 

Edgar! Edgar! when I saw that blood flowing, when I saw life and youthconverted into an inanimate mass of clay, when you left me alone on thisinanimate theatre of death, my feelings underwent a sudden revolution;this moment seemed to age me a half a century, and without lessening myhatred, only left me a confused perception of it, with a vague memoryfull of disenchantment and sadness. 

The crime was great, it is true, but what a terrible expiation! Whathellish torture heaped upon him at once! To lose all at the point of thesword, all!--youth, fortune, love, wife, celestial joys, beautifulnature and the light of the sun!

However, dear Edgar, I remembered our solemn promise; and as you werenot here to release me, I was obliged to fulfil it to the letter. Andthen again, shall I say it, this humane consideration did not extend tothe offending woman; my heart was still filled with a sentiment that hasno name in the language of the passions!--A mixture of hatred, love, jealousy, scorn and despair. 

She was not dead! A man had been sacrificed as a victim upon the altarof this goddess: that was all. 

Do not women require amusement of this sort?

She would live; to-day, she would weep; to-morrow, seek the common pathof consolation. One victim is not enough to gratify her cruel vanity!She must be quickly consoled, that she might be ready to receive freshsacrifices in her temple. 

My heart filled with angry passions awakened by these thoughts, Ispurred my horse, and hastened in the direction of the house that hadbeen described to me the day before. I soon recognised the picturesquespot, where this accursed house lay concealed in the midst of beautifultrees and smiling waters. 

An electric shock must have communicated to you, dear Edgar, theoppression of heart I felt at the sight of the landscape. There was thehistory of love in every tree and flower. There was an ineffable recordin the hedges of the valleys; loving caresses in the murmur of thewater-lilies; ecstasies of lovers in the quivering of the leaves; divineintoxication in the exhalations of the wild flowers, and in the lights, shadows and gentle breezes under the mysterious alcoves of the trees. Oh! how happy they must have been in this paradise! The whole air wasfilled with the life of their love and happiness! There must have beenpresent a supernatural and invisible being, who was a jealous witness ofthis wedded bliss, and who made use of your sword to destroy it! So muchhappiness was an offence before heaven. We have been the blindinstrument of a wrathful spirit. But what mattered death after such aday of perfect bliss! After having tasted the most exquisite tendernessin the world! When looking at the proud young husband sitting in thisflowery bower, with the soft starlight revealing his happy face as hetenderly and hopefully gazed on his lovely bride, who would not haveexclaimed with the poet, "My life for a moment of bliss like this. "

Who would not have welcomed your sword-thrust as the price of a moment'sduration of such divine joy?

The survivors are the unfortunate ones, because they saw but could nottaste this happiness. 

Infernal Tantalus of the delights of Paradise, because their dream hasbecome the reality of another, and lawful vengeance leaves them asatisfaction poisoned by remorse!

Come with me, dear Edgar, in my sad pilgrimage to this accursed house, and with me behold the closing scene. I left the shade of the woods andapproached the lawn, that, like an immense terrace of grass and flowers, spread before the house. I saw many strange things, and with thatcomprehensive, sweeping glance of feverish excitement; two horsescovered with foam, their saddles empty and bridles dragging, trampleddown the flower-borders. One horse was Raymond's, returned riderless!Doubtless brought home by the servant who had accompanied him. 

Not a face was visible, in the sun, the shade, the orchard, on thesteps, or at the windows. I observed in the garden two rakes lying onsome beautiful lilies; they had not been carefully laid down, butdropped in the midst of the flowers, on hearing some cry of distressfrom the house. 

One window was open; the rich curtains showed it to be the room of awoman; the carelessly pushed open blinds proved that an anxious watcherhad passed long hours of feverish expectation at the window. A desolatesilence reigned around the house; this silence was fearful, and at anhour of the day when all is life and animation, in harmony with thesinging birds and rippling waters. 

I ascended the steps, mechanically noticing the beautiful flowersclustering about the railing; flowers take a part in every catastropheof life. On the threshold, I forgot myself to think of you, to live withyour spirit, to walk with your feet, for my own resolution would havefailed me at this fatal moment. 

In the vestibule I looked through a half-open folding-door, and, in thefunereal darkness, saw some peasantry kneeling and praying. No head wasraised to look at me. I slowly entered the room with my eyes downcast, and lids swollen with tears I forcibly restrained. In a recess, lying ona sofa, was something white and motionless, the sight of which froze myblood. . . . It was--I cannot write her name, Edgar--it was she. Mytroubled gaze could not discover whether dead or living. She seemed tobe sleeping, with her hair lying carelessly about the pillow, in thedisorder of a morning repose. 

Near by was a young man-servant, his vest spotted with blood; with faceburied in his hands he was weeping bitterly. 

Near her head a window was raised to admit the fresh air. This windowopened on an inner courtyard, very gloomy on account of the masses ofleaves that seemed to drop from the walls and fill it with sombreness. 

Two men dressed in black, with faces more melancholy-looking than theirgarments, were in this courtyard, talking in low tones; through thewindow I could only see their heads and shoulders. I merely glanced atthem; my eyes, my sorrow, my hatred, my love were all concentrated uponthis woman. Absorbed by a heart-rending gaze, an instinct rather thanidea rooted me to the spot. 

I waited for her to recover her senses, to open her eyes, not to add toher anguish by a word or look of mine, but to let her see me standingthere, a living, silent accusation. Some farmer-boys entered withlighted candles, a cross and basin of holy-water. In the disorder of mymind, I understood nothing, but slowly walked out on the terrace, withthe vague idea of breathing a little fresh air and returning. 

The serenity of the sky, the brightness of the sun, the green trees, thefragrant flowers, the songs of the birds, offered an ironical contrastto the scene of mourning. Often does nature refuse to countenance humansorrows, because they are ungrateful to her goodness. She creates thewonders of heaven to make us happy; we evoke the secrets of hell totorture our souls and bodies. Nature is right to scorn ourself-inflicted sorrows. 

You see, my dear Edgar, that I make you share all of my torments, all ofmy gloomy reflections. I make you live over this hour, minute by minute, agony on agony, as I suffered it myself. 

I stood aside under a tree, waiting I know not for what; one of the menin black, I had seen from the window, came down the steps of the terraceand advanced towards me. I made some confused remark; the situationsupplied it with intelligence. 

"You are a relation, a friend, an acquaintance?" he said, inquiringly. 

"Yes, monsieur. "

"It is a terrible misfortune, " he added, clasping his hands and bowinghis head; "or rather say two terrible misfortunes in one day; the poorwoman is also dead. " . . . 

Like one in a dream I heard the latter remark, and I now transcribe itto you as my impression of something that occurred long, long ago, although I know it took place yesterday. 

"Yes, dead, " he went on to say; "we were called in too late. Bleedingwould have relieved the brain. It was a violent congestion; we havesimilar cases during our practice. An immense loss to the community. Awoman who was young, beautiful as an angel, and charity itself. . . . Dead!"

He looked up, raised his hand to heaven, and walked rapidly away. 

I am haunted by a memory that nothing can dispel. This spectre doubtlessfollows you too, dear Edgar. It is a mute, eloquent image fashioned inthe empty air, like the outline of a grave; a phantom that the sundrives not away, pursuing me by day and by night. It is Raymond's faceas he stood opposite to you on the field of death, his brow, his eye, his lips, his whole bearing breathing the noblest sentiments that wereever buried in an undeserved grave. This heroic young man met us withthe fatal conviction that his last hour had come; he felt towards usneither hatred nor contempt; he obeyed the inexorable exigencies of thehour, without accusation, without complaint. 

The silence of Raymond clothed in sublime delicacy his friendship forus, and his love for her. His manner expressed neither the resignationthat calls for pity nor the pride that provokes passion; his countenanceshone with modest serenity, the offspring of a grand resolve. 

In a few days of conjugal bliss he had wandered through the flowerypaths of human felicity; he had exhausted the measure of divinebeatitude allotted to man on earth, and he stood nerved for theinevitable and bloody expiation of his happiness. 

All this was written on Raymond's face. 

Edgar! Edgar! we were too relentless. Why should honor, the noblest ofour virtues, be the parent of so much remorse?

Adieu. 

ROGER DE MONBERT. 

XLI. 

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, St. Dominique Street, Paris (France). 

Do not be uneasy, dear Roger; I have reached the frontier without beingpursued; the news of the fatal duel had not yet spread abroad. I thankyou, all the same, for the letter which you have written me, and inwhich you trace the line of conduct I should pursue in case of arrest. The moment a magistrate interferes, the clearest and least complicatedaffair assumes an appearance of guilt. However, it would have been allthe same to me if I had been arrested and condemned. I fled more on youraccount than on my own. No human interest can ever again influence me;Raymond's death has ended my life!

What an inexplicable enigma is the human heart! When I saw Raymondfacing me upon the ground, an uncontrollable rage took possession of me. The heavenly resignation of his face seemed infamous and finishedhypocrisy. I said to myself: "He apes the angel, the wretch!" and Iregretted that custom interposed a sword between him and my hatred. Itseemed so coldly ceremonious, I would have liked to tear his bosom openwith my nails and gnaw his heart out with my teeth. I knew that I wouldkill him; I already saw the red lips of his wound outlined upon hisbreast by the pale finger of death. When my steel crossed his, Iattempted neither thrusts nor parries. I had forgotten the littlefencing I knew. I fought at random, almost with my eyes shut; but had myadversary been St. George or Grisier, the result would have been thesame. 

When Raymond fell I experienced a profound astonishment; somethingwithin me broke which no hand will ever be able to restore! A gulfopened before me which can never be filled! I stood there, gloomilygazing upon the purple stream that flowed from the narrow wound, fascinated in spite of myself by this spectacle of immobility succeedingaction, death succeeding life, without shade or transition; this youngman, who a moment before was radiant with life and hope, now laymotionless before me, as impossible to resuscitate as Cheops under hispyramid. I was rooted to the spot, unconsciously repeating to myselfLady Macbeth's piteous cry: "Who would have thought the man to have hadso much blood in him?"

They led me away; I allowed them to put me into the carriage like athing without strength or motion. The excitement of anger was succeededby an icy calmness; I had neither memory, thought nor plans; I wasannihilated; I would have liked to stop, throw myself on the ground andlie there for ever. I felt no remorse, I had not even the consciousnessof my crime; the thought that I was a murderer had not yet had time tofix itself in my mind; I felt no connection whatever with the deed thatI had done, and asked myself if it was I, Edgar de Meilhan, who hadkilled Raymond! It seemed as if I had been only a looker-on. 

As to Irene, the innocent cause of this horrible catastrophe, I scarcelythought of her; she only appeared to me a faint phantom seen in anotherexistence! My love, my longings, my jealousy had all vanished. One dropof Raymond's warm blood had stilled my mad vehemence. She is dead, poordarling, it is the only happiness that I could wish her; her deathlessens my despair. If she lived, no torture, no penance could be fierceenough to expiate my crime! No hermit of the desert would lash hisquivering flesh more pitilessly than I!

Rest in peace, dear Louise, for you will always be Louise to me, even inheaven, which I shall never reach, for I have killed my brother andbelong to the race of Cain; I do not pity thee, for thou hast clasped inthy arms the dream of thy heart. Thou hast been happy; and happiness isa crime punishable on earth by death, as is genius and divinity. 

You will forgive me! for I caught a glimpse of the angel through thewoman. I also sought my ideal and found it. O beautiful loving being!why did your faith fail you, why did you doubt the love you inspired!Alas! I thought you a faithless coquette; you were conscientious; yourheart was a treasure that you could not reclaim, and you wished tobestow it worthily! Now I know all; we always know all when it is toolate, when the seal of the irreparable is fixed upon events! You came toHavre, poor beauty, to find me, and fled believing yourself deceived;you could not read my despair through my fictitious joy; you took mymask for my real countenance, the intoxication of my body for theoblivion of my soul! In the midst of my orgie, at the very moment whenmy foot pressed on the Ethiop's body, your azure eyes illumined mydream, your blonde tresses rippled before me like golden waters ofParadise; thoughts of you filled my mind like a vase with divineessence! never have I loved you better; I loved you better than thecondemned man, standing on the last step of the scaffold, loves life, than Satan loves heaven from the depths of hell! My heart, if opened, would have exhibited your name written in all its fibres, like the grainof wood which runs through the whole tree. Every particle of my beingbelonged to you; thoughts of you pervaded me, in every sense, as lightpasses through the air. Your life was substituted for mine; I no longerpossessed either free will or wish. 

For a moment you paused upon the brink of the abyss, and started backaffrighted; for no woman can gaze, unflinchingly, into the depths ofman's heart; precipices always have frightened you--dear angel, as ifyou had not wings! If you had paused an instant longer, you would haveseen far, far in the gloom in a firmament of bright stars, your adoredimage. 

Vain regrets! useless lamentation! The damp and dark earth covers herdelicate form! Her beautiful eyes, her pure brow, her fascinating smilewe shall never see again--never--never--if we live thousands of years. Every hour that passes but widens the distance between us. Her beautywill fade in the tomb, her name be lost in oblivion! For soon we shallhave disappeared, pale forms bending over a marble tomb!

It is very sad, sinister and terrible, but yet it is best so. See her inthe arms of another: Roger! what have we done to God to be damnedalive! I can pity Raymond, since death separates him from Louise. May heforgive me! He will, for he was a grand, a noble, a perfect friend. Weboth failed to appreciate him, as a matter of course; folly and basenessare alone comprehended here below!

We ran a desperate race for happiness! One alone attained it--dead!

EDGAR DE MEILHAN. 

THE END.