My dear Prince, endeavor to recollect that you are not in India; the manners of the Sunda Isles do not prevail here, and I feared from your letter some desperate act which would put you in the power of your friends, the police. In Europe we have professors of aesthetics, Sanscrit, Slavonic, dancing and fencing, but professors of jealousy are not authorized. There is no chair in the College of France for wild beasts; lessons expressed in roarings and in blows from savage paws do very well for the fabulous tiger city of Java legends. If you are jealous, try to deprive your rival of the railroad grant which he was about to obtain, or ruin him in his electoral college by spreading the report that, in his youth, he had written a volume of sonnets. This is constitutional revenge which will not bring you before the bar of justice. The courts now-a-days are so tricky that they might give you some trouble even for suppressing such an insipid fop as Leon de Varezes. Tigers, whatever you may say, are bad instructors. With regard to tigers, we only tolerate cats, and then they must have velvet paws.

These counsels of moderation addressed to you, I have profited by myself, for, in another way, I have reached a fine degree of exasperation. You suspect, of course, that Louise Guerin is at the bottom of it, for a woman is always at the bottom of every man's madness. She is the leaven that ferments all our worst passions.

Madame Taverneau set out for Rouen; I went to see Louise, my heart full of joy and hope. I found her alone, and at first thought that the evening would be decisive, for she blushed high on seeing me. But who the deuce can count upon women! I left her the evening before, sweet, gentle and confiding; I found her cold, stern, repelling and talking to me as if she had never seen me before. Her manner was so convincing that nothing had passed between us, that I found it necessary to take a rapid mental survey of all the occurrences of our expedition to the Andelys to prove to myself that I was not somebody else. I may have a thousand faults, 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. My interpretation of glances, smiles, tones of the voice are generally very faithful; I do not pass over expressions that displease me. I put this interpretation upon Louise's conduct. I do not feel an insuperable dislike to M. Edgar de Meilhan. Sure of the meaning of my text, I acted upon it, but Louise assumed such imposing and royal airs, such haughty and disdainful poses, that unless I resorted to violence I felt I could obtain nothing from her. Rage, instead of love, possessed me; my hands clenched convulsively, driving the nails into my flesh. The scene would have turned into a struggle. Fortunately, I reflected that such emphasized declarations of love, with the greater part of romantic and heroic actions, were not admitted in the Code.

I left abruptly, lest the following elegant announcement should appear in the police gazettes: "Mr. Edgar de Meilhan, landed proprietor, having made an attack upon Madame Louise Guerin, screen-painter, &c."—for I felt the strongest desire to strangle the object of my devotion, and I think I should have done so had I remained ten minutes longer.

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

My wrath was so great that I went to Mantes to see Alfred! To open the door of paradise and then shut it in my face, spread before me a splendid banquet and prevent me from sitting down to it, promise me love and then offer me prudery, is an infamous, abominable and even indelicate act. Do you know, dear Roger, that I just escaped looking like a goose; the rage that possessed me gave a tragic expression to my features, which alone saved me from ridicule! Such things we never forgive 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 position restrained me. I feel a pity for the weak which will be my ruin; for the weak are pitiless towards the strong.

Poor Alfred must be an excellent fellow not to have thrown me out of the 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 nerves were in such a state of irritation that I beheaded with my whip more than five hundred poppies along the road. I who never have committed an assault upon any foliage, whose conscience is innocent of the murder of a single flower! For a moment I had a notion to ask a catafalque of the romantic Marquise. You may judge from that the disordered state of my faculties and my complete moral prostration.

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

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

Near the window, by my mother's side, sat a young woman, bending over an embroidery frame, threading a needle with red worsted. At the sound of my voice she raised her head and I recognised—Louise Gruerin!

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

To see Louise Guerin quietly seated in my mother's room, was as electrifying as if you, on going home some morning, were to find Irene de Chateaudun engaged in smoking one of your cigars. Did some strange chance, some machiavellian combination introduce Louise at Richeport? I shall soon know.

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

What does it matter, after all? Louise lives under the same roof with me, 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 ease here than at Madame Taverneau's, and what would be a restraint on a woman of her class, on the contrary gives her more liberty. Her manners have become charming, and I often ask myself if she is not the daughter of one of Madame de Meilhan's friends. With wonderful tact she immediately put herself in unison with her surroundings; women alone can quickly become acclimated in a higher sphere. A man badly brought up always remains a booby. Any danseuse taken from the foot-lights of the Opera by the caprice of a great lord, can be made a fine lady. Nature has doubtless provided for these sudden elevations of fortune by bestowing upon women that marvellous facility of passing from one position to another without exhibiting surprise or being thrown out of their element. Put Louise into a carriage having a countess's crown upon the 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. The auspicious opening of a flower transplanted into a soil that suits it, shone through Louise's whole being. My manner towards her partakes of a tenderer playfulness, a more affectionate gallantry. After all, Richeport is better than Pont de l'Arche, for there is nothing like fighting on your own ground.

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

EDGAR DE MEILHAN.



XVII.

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

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 fact is, that when you can't control events, the best thing to be done is to let events control you.

On Sunday I went to hear mass in the beautiful church at Pont de l'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 sat beside me; it was Madame de Meilhan. I recognised her at once, having been accustomed to seeing her every Sunday at mass. As it was late, and the services were almost ended, I thought it very natural that she should sit by me to avoid walking the length of the aisle to reach her own pew, so I continued to read my prayers without paying any attention to 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 the alteration of her face; suddenly she tottered and fell fainting on Madame Taverneau's shoulder. She was taken out of the church, and the fresh air soon restored her to consciousness. She seemed agitated when she saw me near her, but the interest I showed in her sickness seemed to reassure her; she gracefully thanked me for my kind attention, and then looked at me in a way that was very embarrassing. I invited her to return with me to Madame Taverneau's and rest herself; she accepted the offer, and Madame Taverneau carried her off with great pomp. There Madame de Meilhan explained how she had walked alone from Richeport in spite of the excessive heat, at the risk of making herself ill, because her son had taken the coachman and horses and left home suddenly that morning without saying where he was going. As she said this she looked at me significantly. I bore these questioning looks with proud calmness. I must tell you that the evening before, M de Meilhan had called on me during the absence of Madame Taverneau and her husband. The danger of the situation inspired me. I treated him with such coldness, I reached a degree of dignity so magnificent that the great poet finally comprehended there are some glaciers inaccessible, even to him. He left me, furious and disconsolate, but I do him the justice to say that he was more disconsolate than furious. This real sorrow made me think deeply. If he loved me seriously, how culpable was my conduct! I had been too coquettish towards him; he could not know that this coquetry was only a ruse; that while appearing to be so devoted to him my whole mind was filled with another. Sincere love should always be respected; one is not compelled to share it, but then one has no right to insult it.

The uneasiness of Madame de Meilhan; her conduct towards me—for I was certain she had purposely come late to mass and taken a seat by me for the purpose of speaking to me and finding out what sort of a person I was—the uneasiness of this devoted mother was to me a language more convincing of the sincerity of her son's sentiments than all the protestations of love he could have uttered in years. A mother's anxiety is an unmistakable symptom; it is more significant than all others. The jealousy of a rival is not so certain an indication; distrustful love may be deceived, but maternal instinct never is. Now, to induce a woman of Madame de Meilhan's spirit and character to come agitated and trembling to see me, ... why, I can say it without vanity, her son must be madly in love, and she wished at all costs either to destroy or cure this fatal passion that made him so unhappy.

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

It happened that truth spoke for itself, as it always does, but unfortunately is not always listened to. By my manners, the tone of my voice, my respectful but dignified politeness—which in no way resembled Mad. Taverneau's servile and obsequious eagerness to please, her humble deference being that of an inferior to a superior, whilst mine was nothing more than that due to an old lady from a young one—by these shades insignificant to the generality of people, but all revealing to an experienced eye, Mad. de Meilhan at once divined everything, that is to say, that I was her equal in rank, education and nobility of soul; she knew it, she felt it. This fact admitted, one thing remained uncertain; why had I fallen from my rank in society? Was it through misfortune 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 were a light, trifling woman, as she every now and then seemed to hope, her son was merely engaged in a flirtation that would have no dangerous result; if on the contrary I was an honorable woman, which she evidently feared might be the case, her son's future was ruined, and she trembled for the consequences of this serious passion. Her perplexity amused me. The country around us was superb, and as we walked along I went into ecstasies over the beauty of the scenery and the lovely tints of the sky; she would smile and think: "She is only an artist, an adventuress—I am saved; she will merely be Edgar's friend, and keep him all the winter at Richeport." Alas! it is a great pity that she is not rich enough to spend the winter in Paris with Edgar; she seems miserable at being separated from him for months at a time.

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

"That island formerly belonged to the Richeport estate," said Mad. de Meilhan; "so did those large meadows you see down below; the height of my ambition is to buy them back, but to do this Edgar must marry an heiress."

This word troubled me, and Mad. de Meilhan seemed annoyed. She evidently thought: "She is an honest woman, and wants to marry Edgar, I fear," I took no notice of her sudden coldness of manner, but thought to myself: How delightful it would be to carry out these ambitious plans, and gratify 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 would possess all this beautiful forest. Oh! how sweet would it be to feel that you are a small Providence on earth, able to penetrate and instantly gratify the secret wishes of people you like! Valentine, I begin to distrust myself; a temptation like this is too dangerous for a nature like mine; I feel like saying to this noble, impoverished lady: here, take these meadows, woods and islands that you so tenderly sigh for—I could also say to this despairing young poet: here, take this woman that you so madly love, marry her and be happy ... without remembering that this woman is myself; without stopping to ask if this happiness I promise him will add to my own.

Generosity is to me dangerously attractive! How I would love to make the fortune of a noble poet! I am jealous of these foreigners who have lately given us such lessons in generosity. I would be so happy in bestowing a brilliant future upon one who chose and loved me in my obscurity, but to do this love is necessary, and my heart is broken—dead! I have no love to give.

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

Edgar is undeniably a talented, superior man, and captivating, as the beautiful Marquise de R. has proved; but I fail to recognise in his love the ideal I dreamed of. It is not the expression of an eye that he admires, it is the fine shape of the lids, limpid pupils; it is not the ingenuous grace of a smile that pleases him, it is the regularity of the lines, the crimson of the lips; to him beauty of soul adds no charm to a lovely face. Therefore, this love that a word of mine can render legitimate, frightens me as if it were a guilty passion; it makes me uneasy and timid. I know you will ridicule me when I say that upon me this passionate poet has the same effect as women abounding in imagination and originality of mind have upon men, who admire but never marry them. He has none of that affectionate gravity so necessary in a husband. On every subject our ideas differ; this different way of seeing things would cause endless disputes between us, or what is sadder yet, mutual sacrifices. Everybody adores the charming Edgar, I say Edgar, for it is by this name I daily hear him praised. I wish I could love him too! He was astonished to find me at his mother's house yesterday. Since my first visit to Richeport, Mad. de Meilhan would not allow a single day to pass without my seeing her; each day she contrived a new pretext to attract me; a piece of tapestry work to be designed, a view of the Abbey to be painted, a new book to read aloud or some music to try; the other evening it was raining torrents when I was about leaving and she insisted upon my staying all night; now she wishes me to remain for her birthday, 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 and that during this time I had never ceased to mourn for the late Albert Guerin; in her zeal she added that he was a very deserving young man! My good Blanchard contented herself with saying that I was worth more than Mad. de Meilhan and all of her family put together. While they study me I study them. There is no danger in my remaining at Richeport. Edgar respects his mother—she watches over me. If necessary, I will tell her everything.... She speaks kindly of Mlle. de Chateaudun—she defends me.... How I laughed to myself this morning! I heard that M. de Monbert had secretly applied to the police to discover my whereabouts and the police sent him to join me at Burgundy!... What could have made any one think I was there? At whose house will he go to seek me? and whom will he find instead of me? However, I may be there before long if my cousin will travel by way of Macon. She will not be ready to start before next week.

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 of love is passed? Verily one must be able to love his whole lifetime if he wishes to live an enchanted life, and die a painless death. What a seductive game! what unexpected luck! How many moments delightfully employed! Each day has its particular history; at night we delight in telling it over to ourselves, and indulge in the wildest conjectures as to what will be the events of each to-morrow. The reality of to-day defeats the anticipations of yesterday. We hope one moment and despair the next—now dejected, now elated. We alternate between death and blissful life.

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

Happy people they must be!

However, I only asked all these questions to amuse myself during the ten minutes' relay. My mind was at rest—for the police are infallible; everything will be explained at the Chateau de Lorgeville. I stopped my carriage some yards from the gate, got out and walked up the long avenue, being concealed by the large trees through which I caught glimpses of the chateau.

It was a large symmetrical building—a stone quadrangle, heavily topped off by a dark slate roof, and a dejected-looking weathercock that rebelled against the wind and declined to move.

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

A modern entrance, with double flights of steps decorated by four vases containing four dead aloe-stems buried in straw, betrayed the cultivated taste of the handsome Leon.

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

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

Finally a gardener enjoying a sinecure came to enliven this landscape without a garden; he strolled down the avenue with the nonchalance of a workman paid by the handsome Leon.

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

"Is this Mad. de Lorgeville's chateau?"

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

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

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

I said to myself, The handsome Leon does not indulge in letter-writing—he has a good reason for that.

The following is the letter carried by the gardener to the chateau:—

"Mademoiselle,—

"Desperate situations justify desperate measures. I am willing to believe 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 sane idea 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 name of Heaven save me! save yourself!

"There is in the neighborhood of the chateau some farmhouse, or shady grove. Name any spot where I can meet you in an hour. I am awaiting your answer.... After an hour has passed I will wait for nothing more in this world."

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

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

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

Through the thick foliage where I was concealed, I had a confused view of one wing of the chateau; the wall appeared to be covered with green tapestry torn in a thousand places. I could distinguish nothing clearly at a distance of twenty yards. Finally I saw approaching a graceful figure clad in white—and through the trees I caught sight of a blue scarf—a muslin dress and blue scarf—nothing more, and yet my heart stood still! My sensations at this moment are beyond analyzation. I felt an emotion that a man in love will comprehend at once.... A muslin dress fluttering under the trees where the fountains ripple and the birds sing! Is there a more thrilling sight?

I stood with one foot forward on the gravel-path, and with folded arms and 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 not Irene!...

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

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

"Excuse me, monsieur, ... but if you knew ... when you see ... but she must not see my foolish merriment, ... she cherishes the fancy that she is still young, ... like all women who are no longer so, ... give me your arm, ... we were at table ... we always keep a seat for a chance visitor ... One does not often meet with an adventure like this except in novels...."

I made an effort to assume that calmness and boldness that saved my life the day I was made prisoner on the inhospitable coast of Borneo, and the old Arab king accused me of having attempted the traffic of gold dust—a capital crime—and said to the fair young chatelaine:

"Madame, there is not much to amuse one in the country; gayety is a precious thing; it cannot be bought; happy is he who gives it. I congratulate myself upon being able to present it to you. Can you not give 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 chateau in search 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. The arrival of the Prince de Monbert is a piece of good fortune. My husband and 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 chateau; "I accept the happiness of being retained by you; but will you be good enough 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 for ten years."

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

"Alas! monsieur, I have nothing in that line to offer you. This evening I can show you some neighbors who resemble the tribes of the Tortoise of the Great Serpent—these are the only natives I can dispose of. At present 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 fit of laughter ... finally she continued: "A young lady whose name you will know later."

"I know it already, madame."

"Perhaps you do ... to-morrow our company will be increased by two persons, my brother." ...

"The handsome Leon!"

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

I started so violently that I dropped Mad. de Lorgeville's arm—she looked frightened, and I said in a painfully constrained voice:

"And his wife.... Mad. de Varezes?... Ah! I did not know that M. de Varezes was married."

"My brother was married a month ago," said Mad. Lorgeville. "He married Mlle. de Bligny."

"Are you certain of that, madame?"

This question was asked in a voice and accompanied by an expression of countenance that would have made a painter or musician desperate, even were they Rossini or Delacroix.

Mad. de Lorgeville, alarmed a second time by my excited manner, looked at me with commiseration, as if she thought me crazy! Certainly neither my face nor manner indicated sanity.

"You ask if I am sure my brother is married!" said Mad. de Lorgeville with petrified astonishment. "You are surely jesting?"

"Yes, madame, yes," said I, with an exuberance of gayety, "it is a joke.... I understand it all ... I comprehend everything ... that is to say—I understand nothing ... but your brother, the excellent Leon de Varezes, is married—that is all I wanted to know.... What a very handsome young man he is!... I suppose, madame, that you opened my note without reading the address ... or did Mlle. de Chateaudun send you here to meet me?"

"Mlle. de Chateaudun is not here ... excuse this silly laughter ... the gardener gave your note to one of my guests ... a young lady of sixty-five summers.... Who by the strangest coincidence is named Mlle. de Chantverdun.... Now you can account for my amusement ... Mlle. de Chantverdun is a canoness. She read your letter, and wished for once in her life to enjoy uttering a shriek of alarm and faint at the sight of a love letter; so come monsieur," said Mad. de Lorgeville, smilingly leading me towards the house, "come and make your excuses to Mlle. de Chantverdun, who has recovered her senses and sent me to her rendezvous."

Involuntarily, my dear Edgar, I indulged in this short monologue after the manner of the old romancers: O tender love! passion full of intoxication and torment! love that kills and resuscitates! What a terrible vacuum thou must leave in life, when age exiles thee from our heart! Which means that I was resuscitated by Mad. de Lorgeville's last words!

In a few minutes I was bowing with a moderate degree of respect before Mlle. de Chantverdun, and making her such adroit excuses that she was enchanted with me. Happiness had restored my presence of mind—my deferential manner and apologies delighted the poor old-young lady. I made her believe that this mistake was entirely owing to a similarity of names, and that the age of Mile. de Chantverdun was an additional point of resemblance.

This distinction was difficult to manage in its exquisite delicacy; my skilfulness won the approbation of Mad. de Lorgeville.

We passed a charming afternoon. I had recovered my gayety that trouble had almost destroyed, and enjoyed myself so much that sunset found me still at the chateau. Dear Edgar, this time I am not mistaken in my conjectures. Mile, de Chateaudun is imposing a trying ordeal upon me—I am more convinced of it than ever; it is the expiation before entering Paradise. Hasten your love affairs and prepare for marriage—we will have 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 our life-long friendship!

ROGER DE MONBERT.



XIX.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isere).

RICHEPORT, July 6th 18—.

It is he! Valentine, it is he! I at once recognised him, and he recognised me! And our future lives were given to each other in one of those looks that decide a life. What a day! how agitated I still am! My hand 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 sleep to-night. I am so excited, my mind so foolishly disturbed, that sleep is a 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 that burns my eyes, stop this whirl of thoughts rushing through my brain; to sleep, 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 I would have been to prove to you the realization of all my dreams and presentiments!

Ah! I knew I was right; such implicit faith could not be an error; I was convinced that there existed on earth a being created for me, who would some day possess and govern my heart! A being who had always possessed my love, who sought me, and called upon me to respond to his love; and that 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 leave me and travel far away in response to some mysterious command. Where did it go? Then I was ignorant, now I know—it went to Italy, in answer to the gentle voice, to the behest of Raymond! I was laughed at for what was called my romantic idea, and I tried to ridicule it myself. I fought against this fantasy. Alas! I fought so valiantly against it that it was almost destroyed. Oh! I shudder when I think of it.... A few moments more ... and I would have been irrevocably engaged; I would no longer have been worthy of this love for which I had kept myself irreproachable, in spite of all the temptations of misery, all the dangers of isolation, and the long-hoped-for day of blissful meeting, would have been the day of eternal farewell! This averted misfortune frightened me as if it were still menacing. Poor Roger! I heartily pardon him now; more than that, I thank him for having so quickly disenchanted 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! what a 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 him not ... and yet I love him!... Valentine, what will you think of me?

This most important day of my life opened in the ordinary way; nothing foreshadowed the great event that was to decide my fate, that was to throw so much light upon the dark doubts of my poor heart. This brilliant sun suddenly burst upon me unheralded by any precursory ray.

Some new guests were expected; a relative of Madame de Meilhan, and a friend of Edgar, whom they call Don Quixote. This struck me as being a peculiar nickname, but I did not ask its origin. Like all persons of imagination, I have no curiosity; I at once find a reason for everything; I prefer imagining to asking the wherefore of things; I prefer suppositions to information. Therefore I did not inquire why this friend was honored with the name of Don Quixote. I explained it to myself in this wise: A tall, thin young man, resembling the Chevalier de la Mancha, and who perhaps had dressed himself like Don Quixote at the carnival, and the name of his disguise had clung to him ever since; I fancied a silly, awkward youth, with an ugly yellow face, a sort of solemn jumping-jack, and I confess to no desire to make his acquaintance. He disturbed me in one respect, but I was quickly reassured. I am always afraid of being recognised by visitors at the chateau, and have to exercise a great deal of ingenuity to find out if we have ever met. Before appearing before them, I inquire if they are fashionable people, spent last winter in Paris, &c.? I am told Don Quixote is almost a savage; he travels all the time so as to sustain his character 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 the possibility of recognition, I dismissed him from my mind.

Yesterday, at three o'clock, Madame de Meilhan and her son went to the depot to meet their guests. I was standing at the front door when they drove off, and Madame de Meilhan called out to me: "My dear Madame Guerin, I recommend my bouquets to you; pray spare me the eternal soucis with which the cruel Etienne insists upon filling my rooms; now I rely upon you for relief."

I smiled at this pun as if I had never heard it before, and promised to superintend the arrangement of the flowers. I went into the garden and found Etienne gathering soucis, more soucis, nothing but soucis. I glanced at his flower-beds, and at once understood the cause of his predilection for this dreadful flower; it was the only kind that deigned to bloom in his melancholy garden: This is the secret of many inexplicable preferences.

I thought with horror that Madame de Meilhan would continue to be a prey to soucis if I did not come to her rescue, so I said: "Etienne, what a pity to cull them all! they are so effective in a garden; let us go look for some other flowers—it is a shame to ruin your beautiful beds!" The flattered Stephen eagerly followed me to a corner of the garden where I had admired some superb catalpas. He gathered branches of them, with which I filled the Japanese vases on the mantel, and ornamented the corners of the parlor, thus converting it into a flowery grove. I also arranged some Bengal roses and dahlias that had escaped Etienne's culture, and with the addition of some asters and a very few soucis I must confess, I was charmed with the result of my labors. But I wanted some delicate flowers for the pretty vase on the centre table, and remembering that an old florist, a friend of Madame Taverneau and one of my professed admirers, lived about a mile from the chateau, I determined to walk over and describe to him the dreadful condition of Madame de Meilhan, and appeal to him for assistance. Fortunately I found him in his green-house, and delighted him by repeating the pun about filling the house with soucis. Provincials have a singular taste for puns; 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 a magnificent bouquet of rare, unknown, nameless, exquisite flowers that could be found nowhere else; my bouquet was worth a fortune, and what fortune ever exhaled such perfume? I started off triumphant. I tell you all this to show how calm and little inclined I was to romance on that morning.

I walked rapidly, for we can hardly help running when in an open field and pursued by the arrows of the sun; we run till we are breathless, to find shelter beneath some friendly tree.

I had crossed a large field that separates the property of the florist from Madame de Meilhan's, and entered the park by a little gate; a few steps off a fountain rippled among the rocks—a basin surrounded by shells received its waters. This basin had originally been pretentiously ornamented, but time and vegetation had greatly improved these efforts of bad taste. The roots of a grand weeping willow had pitilessly unmasked the imposture of these artificial rocks, that is, they have destroyed their skilful masonry; these rocks, built at great expense on the shore, have gradually fallen into the very middle of the water, where they have become naturalized; some serve as vases to clusters of beautiful iris, others serve as resting-places for the tame deer that run about the park and drink at the stream; aquatic plants, reeds and entwined convolvulus have invaded the rest; all the pretentious work of the artist is now concealed; which proves the vanity of the proud efforts of man. God permits his creatures to cultivate ugliness in their cities only; in his own beautiful fields he quickly destroys their miserable attempts. Vainly, under pretext of a fountain, do they heap up in the woods and valleys masonry upon masonry, rocks upon rocks; vainly do they lavish money upon their gingerbread work about the limpid brooks; the water-nymph smilingly watches their labor, and then in her capricious play amuses herself by changing their hideous productions into charming structures; their den of a farmer-general into a poet's nest; and to effect this miracle only three things are necessary—three things that cost nothing, and which we daily trample under foot—flowers, grass and pebbles.... Valentine, I know I have been talking too long about this little lake, but I have an excuse: I love it much! You shall soon know why....

I heard the purling of the water, and could not resist the seductive freshness of its voice; I leaned over the rocks of the fountain, took off my glove and caught in the hollow of my hand the sparkling water that fell from the cascade, and eagerly drank it. As I was intoxicating myself with this innocent beverage, I heard a footstep on the path; I continued to drink without disturbing myself, until the following words made me raise my head:

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, but can you direct me where to find Mad. de Meilhan?"

He called me Mademoiselle, so I must be recognised; the idea made me turn 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 betray me. I was so disconcerted that I dropped half of my flowers in the water; the current was rapidly whirling them off among the crevices of the rocks, when he jumped lightly from stone to stone, and rescuing the fugitive flowers, laid them all carefully by the others on the side of the fountain, bowed respectfully and retraced his steps down the walk without renewing his unanswered question. I was, without knowing why, completely reassured; there was in his look such high-toned loyalty, in his manner such perfect distinction, and a sort of precaution so delicately mysterious, that I felt confidence in him. I thought, even if he does know my name it will make no difference—for he would never mention having met me—my secret is safe with a man of his character! You need not laugh at me for prematurely deciding upon his character,... for my surmises proved correct!

The dinner hour was drawing near, and I hurried back to the chateau to dress. I was compelled, in spite of myself, to look attractive, on account of having to put on a lovely dress that the treacherous Blanchard had spread out on the bed with the determination that I should wear it; protesting that it was a blessed thing she had brought this one, as there was not another one fit for me to appear in before Mad. de Meilhan's guests. It was an India muslin trimmed with twelve little flounces edged with exquisite Valenciennes lace; the waist was made of alternate tucks and insertion, and trimmed with lace to match the skirt. This dress was unsuitable to the humble Madame Guerin—it would be imprudent to appear in it. How indignant and angry I was with poor Blanchard! 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 a fashionable sash to wear with the dress, but I resisted the temptation, and casting aside the elegant ribbon, I put on an old lilac belt and descended to the parlor where the company were assembled.

The first person I saw, on entering the room, was the young man I had met by the fountain. His presence disconcerted me. Mad. de Meilhan relieved my embarrassment by saying: "Ah! here you are! we were just speaking of you. I wish to introduce to you my dear Don Quixote," I turned my head towards the other end of the room where Edgar was talking to several persons, thinking that Don Quixote was one of the number; but Mad. 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 me madame, and in uttering this word there was a tone of sadness that deeply touched me, and the earnest look with which he regarded me I can never forget—it seemed to say, I know your history, I know you are unhappy, I know this unhappiness is unjustly inflicted upon you, and you arouse my tenderest sympathy. I assure you, my dear Valentine, that his look 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 was listening.

"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. de Villiers; he cast upon his friend a severe and scornful look that clearly said: You conceited puppy! I think, but am not certain, this look also signified: Would-be Lovelace! Provincial Don Juan, &c.

At dinner I was placed opposite him, and all during the meal I was wondering why this handsome, elegant, distinguished-looking young man should be nicknamed Don Quixote. Thoughtful observation solved the enigma. Don Quixote was ridiculed for two things: being very ugly and being too generous. And I confess I felt myself immediately fascinated by his captivating characteristics.

After dinner we were on the terrace, when he approached me and said with a smile:

"I am distressed, madame, to think that without knowing you, I must have made a disagreeable impression."

"I confess that you startled me."

"How pale you turned!... perhaps you were expecting some one!" ... He asked this question with a troubled look and such charming anxiety that I 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 sudden fright!... some resemblance, perhaps?—no?—It is strange ... I am puzzled."

"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 will confide it to you, since you are kind enough to be interested in me. I am called Don Quixote because I am a kind of a fool, an original, an enthusiastic admirer of all noble and holy things, a dreamer of noble deeds, a defender of the oppressed, a slayer of egotists; because I believe in all religions, even the religion of love. I think that a man ought to respect himself out of respect to the woman who loves him; that he should constantly think of her with devotion, avoid doing anything that could displease her, and be always, even in her absence, courteous, pleasing, amiable, I would even say loveable, if the word were admissible; a man who is beloved is, according to my ridiculous ideas, a sort of dignitary; he should thenceforth behave as if he were an idol, and deify himself as much as possible. I also have my patriotic religion; 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 is better to be a real Vaudeville Frenchman than an imitation of English jockeys, as they are; they call me knight-errant because I reprove them for speaking coarsely of women. I advise them to keep silent and conceal their misdeeds. I tell them that their boasted preferences only prove their blindness and bad taste; that I am more fortunate than they; all the women of my acquaintance are good and perfect, and my greatest desire in life is to be worthy of their friendship. I am called Don Quixote because I love glory and all those who have the ambition to seek it; because in my eyes there is nothing true but the hopeful future, as we are deceived at every step we take in the present. Because I understand inexplicable disinterestedness, generous folly; because I can understand how one can live for an idea and die for a word; I can sympathize with all who struggle and suffer for a cherished belief; because I have the courage to turn my back upon those whom I despise and am eccentric enough to always speak the truth; I assert that nobody is worth the hypocrisy of a falsehood; because I am an incorrigible, systematic, insatiable dupe; I prefer going astray, making a mistake by doing a good deed, rather than being always distrustful and suspicious; while I see evil I believe in good; doubtless the evil predominates and daily increases, but then it is cultivated, and if the same cultivation were bestowed upon the good perfection would be attained. Finally, madame, and this is my supreme folly, I believe in happiness and seek it with credulous hope; I believe that the purest joys are those which are most dearly bought; but I am ready for any sacrifice, and would willingly give my life for an hour of this sublime joy that I have so long dreamed of and still hope to possess.... Now you know why I am called Don Quixote. To be a knight-errant in the present day is rather difficult; a certain amount of courage is necessary to dare to say to unbelievers: 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 to appear generous. If I were merely loyal and charitable, my opinions would not be supported; instead of being called Don Quixote, I would be called Grandison ... and I would be a ruined man! Thus I hasten to polish my armor and attack the insolent with insolence, the scoffers with scoffing; I defend my enthusiasm with irony; like the eagle, I let my claws grow in order to defend my wings." ... Here he stopped.... "Heavens!" he exclaimed, "how could I compare myself to an eagle; I beg your pardon, madame, for this presumptuous comparison.... You see to what flights your indulgence leads me" ... and he laughed at his own enthusiasm, ... but I did not laugh, my feelings were too deeply stirred.

Valentine, what I repeat to you is very different from his way of saying it. What eloquence in his noble words, his tones of voice, his sparkling eyes! His generous sentiments, so long restrained, were poured forth with fire; he was happy at finding himself at last understood, at being able for once in his life to see appreciated the divine treasures of his heart, to be able to impart all his pet ideas without seeing them jeered at and their name insulted! Sympathy inspired him with confidence in me. With delight I recognised myself in his own description. I saw with pride, in his profound convictions, his strong and holy truths, the poetical beliefs of my youth, that have always been treated by every one else as fictions, and foolish illusions; he carried me back to the happy days 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 noble precepts—those beautiful refrains of chivalry in which my infancy was cradled.... As I listened I said to myself: how my mother would have loved 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 near Roger.... Now you must acknowledge, my dear Valentine, that I am right when I say that: It is he! It is he!

We had been absorbed an hour in these confidential reveries, forgetting the persons around us, the place we were in, who we were ourselves, and the whole world!

The universe had disappeared, leaving us only the delicate perfume of the orange blossoms around us, and the soft light of the stars peeping forth from the sky above us.

We returned to the parlor and I was seated near the centre-table, when Edgar came up to me and said:

"What is the matter with you this evening? You seem depressed; are you not 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 I had brought. "Ah! I recognise these flowers!" he looked at me and I blushed. "I do too," said Edgar, without taking in the true sense of the words, and he pointed to the prettiest flowers in the bouquet, and said: "these are the flowers of the pelargonium diadematum coccineum." I exclaimed at the dreadful name. M. de Villiers repeated: "Pelargonium diadematum coccineum!" in an undertone, with a most fascinating smile, and said: "Oh! I did not mean that!" ... I could not help looking at him and smiling in complicity; now why should Edgar be so learned?

I suppose you think it very childish to write you these particulars, but the most trifling details of this day are precious to me, and I must confide them to some one. Towards midnight we separated, and I rejoiced at being alone with my happiness. The emotion I felt was so lively that I hastened to carry it far away from everybody, even from him, its author. I wished for solitude that I might ask myself what had caused this agitation—nothing of importance had occurred this day, no word of engagement for the future had been made, and yet my whole life wore a different aspect ... my usually calm heart was throbbing violently—my mind always so uneasy was settled; who had thus changed my fate?... A stranger ... and what had he done to merit this sudden preference? He had picked up some flowers ... But this stranger wore on his brow the aureola of the dreamed-of ideal, his musical voice had the imperative accent of a master, and from the first moment he looked at me, there existed between us that mysterious affinity of fraternal instincts, that spontaneous alliance of two hearts suddenly mated, unfailing gratitude, irresistible sympathy, mutual echo, reciprocal exchange, quick appreciation, ardent and sublime harmony, that creates in one moment—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 the courage to put my thoughts on paper, and I remained there all night, trembling and meditative, oppressed by this powerful emotion; I did not think, 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 I heard a noise of rakes and scythes in the garden, and wishing to cool my hot eyes with a breath of fresh air, I descended to the terrace.

Everybody was asleep in the chateau and all the blinds closed, but I opened the glass door leading into the garden, and after walking up and down the gravel-path, crossed the bridge over the brook, and went by way of the little thicket where I had rested yesterday; I was led by some magnetic attraction to the covered spring; I did not go up the poplar-walk, but took a little by-path seldom used by any one, and almost covered with grass; I reached the spring, and suddenly ... before me ... I saw him ... Valentine!... he was there alone, ... sitting on the bench by the fountain, with his beautiful eyes fastened on the spot where he had seen me the day before! And oh, the sad wistfulness of his look went straight to my heart! I stood still, happy, yet frightened; I wished to flee; I felt that my presence was a confession, a proof of his empire; 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 seemed more alarmed than I had been the day previous! His agitation restored my calmness; it convinced me that during these hours of separation our thoughts had been the same, and that our love was mutual. He arose and approached 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 was silent, but my blushes answered for me. As he stood there looking at me I heard a noise near us; it was only a deer coming to drink at the spring; but I trembled so violently that M. de Villiers saw by my alarm that it would distress me to be found alone with him; he was moving away, when I made a sign for him to remain, which meant: Stay, and continue to think of me.... I then quickly returned to the chateau. I have seen him since; we passed the day together, with Madame de Meilhan and her son, playing on the piano, or entertaining the country neighbors, but under it all enjoying the same fascinating preoccupation, an under-current of bliss, a secret intoxication. Edgar is uneasy and Madame de Meilhan is contented; the serious love of her son alarmed her; she sees with pleasure an increasing rivalry that may destroy it. I know not what is about to happen, but I dread anything unpleasant occurring to interrupt my sweet contentment; any explanations, humiliations, adieux, departures—a thousand annoyances,... but it matters not, I am happy, I am in love, and I know there is nothing so satisfying, so sweet as being in love!

This time I say nothing of yourself, my dear Valentine, of yourself, nor of our old friendship, but is not each word of this letter a proof of tender devotion? I confide to you every thought and emotion of my heart—so foolish that one would dare not confess them to a mother. Is not this the same as saying to you: You are the beloved sister of my choice?

Give my dear little goddaughter Irene a kiss for me. Oh, I am so glad she is growing prettier every day!

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.



XX.

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

Paris, July 8th 18—.

Dear Edgar,—Stupidity was invented by our sex. When a woman deceives or deserts us,—synonymous transgressions,—we are foolish enough to prolong 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. de Chateaudun she certainly would not have searched the highways and byways to discover me. I fear there is a great deal of vanity at the bottom of our manly passions. Vanity is the eldest son of love. I shall develop this theory upon some future occasion. One must be calm when one philosophizes. At present I am obliged to continue in my folly, begging reason to await my return.

In the intense darkness of despair, one naturally rushes towards the horizon where shines some bright object, be it lighthouse, star, phosphorus or jack-o'-lantern. Will it prove a safe haven or a dangerous rock? Fate,—Chance,—to thee we trust!

My faithful agents are ever watchful. I have just received their despatches, and they inspire me with the hope that at last the thick mist is about to be dispersed. I will spare you all the minute details written by faithful servants, who have more sagacity than epistolary style, and give you a synopsis:—Mlle. de Chateaudun left for Rouen a month ago. She engaged two seats in the car. She was seen at the depot—her maid was with her. There is no longer any doubt—Irene is at Rouen; I have proofs of it in my hand.

An old family servant, devoted to me, is living at Rouen. I will make his house the centre of my observations, and will not compromise the result by any negligence or recklessness on part.

The inexorable logic of victorious combinations will be revealed to me on the first night of my solitude. I am about to start; address me no longer at Paris. Railways were invented for the benefit of love affairs. A lover laid the first rail, and a speculator laid the last. Happily Rouen is a faubourg of Paris! This advantage of rapid locomotion will permit me to pass two hours at Richeport with you, and have the delight of pressing Raymond's hand. Two hours of my life gained by losing them with my oldest and best friend. I will be overjoyed to once more see the noble Raymond, the last of knight-errants, doubtless occupied in painting in stone-color some old manor where Queen Blanche has left traditions of the course of true love.

How dreadful it is, dear Edgar, to endeavor to unravel a mystery when a woman is at the bottom of it! Yes, Irene is at Rouen, I am convinced of that fact. Rouen is a large city, full of large houses, small houses, hotels and churches; but love is a grand inquisitor, capable of searching the city in twenty-four hours, and making the receiver of stolen property surrender Mlle. de Chateaudun. Then what will happen? Have I the right to institute a scheme of this strange nature about a young woman? Is she alone at Rouen? And if misfortune does not mislead me by these certain traces, is there anything in reserve for me worse than losing her?

Oh! if such be the case, then is the time to pray God for strength to repeat 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 (Isere).

RICHEPORT, July 6th, 18—.

MADAME: Need I tell you that I left your house profoundly touched by your goodness, and bearing away in my heart one of the most precious memories that shall survive my youth? What can I tell you that you have not 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 hand which had so often pressed my father's, and when I turned back to get one last look at you, surrounded by your beautiful children, who waved me a final adieu, I felt as if I had left behind me the better part of myself; for a moment I reproached you for having cured me so quickly. My friends have nicknamed me Don Quixote, I do not exactly know why; but this I do know, that with the prospect of a reward like unto that which you have offered me, any one would accept the office of redresser of wrongs and slayer of giants, even at the risk of having to jump into the fire occasionally to save a Lady Penock.

More generous than the angels, you have awarded me, on earth, the palm which is reserved for martyrs in heaven. You appeared before me like one of those benevolent fairies which exorcise evil genii. 'Tis true that you do not wear the magic ring, but your wit alleviates suffering and proclaims a truce to pain. Till now I have laughed at the stoics who declare that suffering is not an evil; seated at my pillow, one smile from you converted me to their belief. Hitherto I have believed that patience and resignation were virtues beyond my strength and courage; without an effort, you have taught me that patience is sweet and resignation easy to attain. I have been persuaded that health is the greatest boon given to man: you have proved its fallacy. And M. de Braimes has shown himself your faithful accomplice, not to speak of your dear little ones, who, for a month past, have converted my room into a flower-garden and a bird-cage, where they were the sweetest flowers and the gayest birds. Finally, as if my life, restored by your tender care, was not enough, you have added to it the priceless jewel of your friendship. A thousand thanks and blessings! With you happiness entered into my destiny. You were the dawn announcing a glorious sunrise, the prelude to the melodies which, since yesterday, swell in my bosom. If I take pleasure in recognising your gentle influence in the secret delight that pervades my being, do not deprive me of the illusion. I believe, with my mother, in mysterious influences. I believe that, as there are miserable beings who, unwittingly, drag misfortune after them and sow it over their pathway, there are others, on the other hand, who, marked by the finger of God, bear happiness to all whom they meet. Happy the wanderer who, like me, sees one of those privileged beings cross his path! Their presence, alone, brings down blessings from heaven and the earth blossoms under their footsteps.

And really, madame, you do possess the faculty of dissipating fatal enchantments. Like the morning star, which disperses the mighty gatherings of goblins and gnomes, you have shone upon my horizon and Lady Penock has vanished like a shadow. Thanks to you, I crossed France with impunity from the borders of Isere to the borders of the Creuse, and then to the banks of the Seine, without encountering the implacable islander who pursued me from the fields of Latium to the foot of the Grande Chartreuse. I must not forget to state that at Voreppe, where I stopped to change horses, the keeper of the ruined inn, recognising my carriage, politely presented me with a bill for damages; so much for a broken glass, so much for a door beaten in, so much for a shattered ladder. I commend to M. de Braimes this brilliant stroke of one of his constituents; it is an incident forgotten by Cervantes in the history of his hero.

In spite of my character of knight-errant, I reached my dear mountains without any other adventure. I had not visited them for three years, and the sight of their rugged tops rejoiced my heart. You would like the country; it is poor, but poetic. You would enjoy its green solitudes, its uncultivated fields, its silent valleys and little lakes enshrined like sheets of crystal in borders of sage and heather. Its chief charm to me is its obscurity; no curiosity-hunter or ordinary tourist has ever frightened away the dryads from its chestnut groves or the naiads from its fresh streams. Even a flitting poet has scarcely ever betrayed its rural mysteries. My chateau 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 flowing at its feet under an arbor of alder-bushes and flowering ash. Such as it is, imbedded in woods which shelter it from the northern blasts and protect it from the heats of the summer solstice; there—if the hope that inspires me is not an illusion of my bewildered brain; if the light that 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 I were walking together, under the trees in your garden; your children played about us like young kids upon the green sward. As we walked we talked, and insensibly began to speak of that vague need of loving which torments our youth. You said that love was a grave undertaking, and that often our whole life depended upon our first choice. I spoke of my aspirations towards those unknown delights, which haunted me with their seductive visions as Columbus was haunted by visions of a new world. Gravely and pensively you listened to me, and when I began to trace the image of the oft-dreamed-of woman, so vainly sought for in the ungrateful domain of reality, I remember that you smiled as you said: "Do not despair, she exists; you will meet her some day." Were you speaking earnestly then? Is it she? Keep still, do not even breathe, she might fly away.

After a few days spent in revisiting the scenes of my childhood, and breathing afresh the sweet perfumes still hovering around infancy's cradle, I left for Paris, where I scarcely rested The manner in which I employed the few hours passed in that hot city would doubtless surprise you, madame. My carriage rolled rapidly through the wealthy portion of the city, and following my directions was soon lost in the gloomy solitude of the Marais.

I alighted in the wilderness of a deserted street before a melancholy and dejected-looking house, and as I raised the heavy latch of the massive door, my heart beat as if I were about to meet, after a long absence, 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 the stair, which, viewed from below, looked more picturesque than inviting, particularly when one proposed to ascend to the very top. Fortunately, I am a mountaineer; I bounded up that wide ladder with as light a step as if it had been a marble stairway, with richly wrought balustrade. At the end of the ascent I hurriedly opened a door, and, perfectly at home, entered a small room. I paused motionless upon the threshold, and glanced feelingly around. The room contained nothing but a table covered with books and dust, a stiff oak arm-chair, a hard and uninviting-looking lounge, and on the mantel-piece, in two earthen vases, designed by Ziegler, the only ornaments of this poor retreat, a few dry, withered asters. No one expected me, I expected no one. There I remained until evening, waiting for nightfall, thinking the sun would never set and the day never end. Finally, as the night deepened, I leaned on the sill of the only window, and with an emotion I cannot describe, watched the stars peep forth one by one. I would have given them all for a sight of the one star which will never shine again. Shall I tell you about it, madame, and would you comprehend me? You know nothing of my life; you do not know that, during two years, I lived in that garret, poor, unknown, with no other friend than labor, no other companion than the little light which appeared and disappeared regularly every evening through the branches of a Canada pine. I did not know then, neither do I know now, who watched by that pale gleam, but I felt for it a nameless affection, a mysterious tenderness. On leaving my retreat, I sent it, through the trees, a long farewell, and the not seeing it on my return distressed me as the loss of a brother. What has become of you, little shining beacon, who illumined the gloom of my studious nights? Did a storm extinguish you? or has God, whom I invoked for you, granted my prayer, and do you shine with a less troubled ray in happier climes? It is a long story; and I know a fresher and a more charming one, which I will speedily tell you.

I took the train the next day (that was yesterday) for Richeport, where M. de Meilhan had invited me to meet him. You know M. de Meilhan without ever having seen him. You are familiar with his verses and you like them. I profess to love the man as much as his talents. Our friendship is of long standing; I assisted at the first lispings of his muse; I saw his young glory grow and expand; I predicted from the first the place that he now holds in the poetic pleiad, the honor of a great nation. To hear him you would say that he was a pitiless scoffer; to study him you would soon find, under this surface of rancorless irony, more candor and simplicity than he is himself aware of, and which few people possess who boast of their faith and belief. He has the mind of a sceptic and the believing soul of a neophyte.

In less than three hours I reached Pont de l'Arche. Railroads have been much abused; it is charitable to presume that those honest people who do so have no relatives, friends nor sweethearts away from them. M. de Meilhan and his mother were waiting for me at the depot; the first delights of meeting over—for you must remember that I have not seen my poet for three years—I leave you to imagine the peals of laughter that greeted the mention of Lady Penock's formidable name. Edgar, who knew of my adventure and was excited by the joy of seeing me again, amused himself by startling the echoes with loud and repeated "Shockings!" We drove along in an open carriage, laughing, talking, pressing each other's hands, asking question upon question, while Madame de Meilhan, after having shared our gayety, seemed to watch with interest the exhibition of our mutual delight. This scene had the most beautiful surroundings in the world; an exquisite country, which in order to be fully 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 within me suffers and repines; it is by no means rare for me to pass suddenly and without transition from the wildest gayety to the profoundest sadness and melancholy. On our arrival at Richeport we found several visitors at the chateaux, among the number a general, solemnly resigned to the pleasures of a day in the country. To escape this illustrious warrior, who was engaged upon the battle of Friedland, Edgar made off between two cavalry charges and carried me into the park, where we were soon joined by Madame de Meilhan and her guest, the terrible general at the head.

Interrupted for a moment by the skilful retreat of the young poet, the battle of Friedland began again with redoubled fury. The paths of the park are narrow; the warrior marched in front with Edgar, who wiped the drops from his brow and exhausted himself in vain efforts to release his arm from an iron grasp; Madame de Meilhan and those who accompanied her represented the corps d'armee; I formed the rear guard; balls whistled by, battalions struggled, we heard the cries of the wounded and were stifled by the smell of powder; wishing to avoid the harrowing sight of such dreadful carnage, I slackened my pace and was agreeably surprised to find, at a turn in the path, that I had deserted my colors; I listened and heard only the song of the bulfinch; I took a long breath and breathed only the odor of the woods; I looked above the birches and aspens for a cloud of smoke which would put me upon the track of the combatants; I saw only the blue sky smiling through the trees; I was alone; by one of those reactions of which I spoke, I sank insensibly into a deep revery.

It was intensely hot; I threw myself upon the grass, under the shadow of a thick hedge, and there lay listening to nature's faint whispers, and the beating of my own heart. The joy that I had just felt in meeting Edgar again, made the void in my heart, which friendship can never fill, all the more painful; my senses, subdued by the heat, chanted in endless elegies the serious and soothing conversation that we had had one evening under your lindens. Whether I had a presentiment of some approaching change in my destiny, or whether I was simply overcome by the heat, I know not, but I was restless; my restlessness seemed to anticipate some indefinite happiness, and from afar the wind bore to me in warm puffs the cheering refrain: "She exists, she exists, you will find her!"

I at last remembered that I had only been Madame de Meilhan's guest a few hours, and that my abrupt disappearance must appear, to say the least, strange to her. On the other hand, Edgar, whom I had treacherously abandoned in the greatest danger, would have serious grounds of complaint against me. I arose, and driving away the winged dreams 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, or rather fortunately, I was unacquainted with the windings of the park, and wandered at random through its verdant labyrinths, the sun pouring down upon my devoted head until I heard the silvery murmur of a neighboring stream, babbling over its pebbly bed. Attracted by the freshness of the spot, I approached and in the midst of a confusion of iris, mint and bindweed, I saw a blonde head quenching its thirst at the stream. I could only see a mass of yellow hair wound in heavy golden coils around this head, and a little hand catching the water like an opal cup, which it afterwards raised to two lips as fresh as the crystal stream which they quaffed. Her face and figure being entirely concealed by the aquatic plants which grew around the spring, I took her for a child, a girl of twelve or more, the daughter perhaps of one of the persons whom I had left upon the battle-field of Friedland. I advanced a few steps nearer, and in my softest voice, for I was afraid of frightening her, said: "Mademoiselle, can you tell me if Madame de Meilhan is near here?" At these words I saw a young and beautiful creature, tall, slender, erect, lift herself like a lily from among the reeds, and trembling and pale, examine me with the air of a startled gazelle. I stood mute and motionless, gazing at her. Surely she possessed the royal beauty of the lily. An imagination enamored of the melodies of the antique muse would have immediately taken her for the nymph of that brook. Like two blue-bells in a field of ripe grain, her large blue eyes were as limpid as the stream which reflected the azure of the sky. On her brow sat the pride of the huntress Diana. Her attitude and the expression of her face betrayed a royalty which desired to conceal its greatness, a strange mixture of timorous boldness and superb timidity—and over it all, the brilliancy of youth—a nameless charm of innocence and childishness tempered in a charming manner the dignity of her noble presence.

I turned away, charmed and agitated, not having spoken a word. After wandering about sometime longer I finally discovered the little army corps, marching towards the chateau, the general always ahead. As I had anticipated, the battle was about over, a few shots fired at the fugitives were alone heard. Edgar saw me in the distance, and looked furious. "Ah traitor!" said he, "you have lagged behind! I am riddled with balls; I have six bullets in my breast," "Monsieur," cried the general, "at what juncture did you leave the combat?" "You see," said Edgar to me, "that the torture is about to commence again." "General," observed Madame de Meilhan, "I think that the munitions are exhausted and dinner is ready." "Very well," gravely replied the hero, "we will take Lubeck at dessert." "Alas! we are taken;" said Edgar, heaving a sigh that would have lifted off a piece of the Cordilleras.

M. de Meilhan left the group of promenaders and joined me; we walked side by side. You can imagine, madame, how anxious I was to question Edgar; you can also comprehend the feeling of delicacy which restrained me. My poet worships beauty; but it is a pagan worship of color and form. The result is, a certain boldness of detail not always excusable by grace of expression, in his description of a beautiful woman; too lively an enthusiasm for the flesh; too great a satisfaction in drawing lines and contours not to shock the refined. A woman poses before him like a statue or rather like a Georgian in a slave-market, and from the manner in which he analyzes and dissects her, you would say that he wanted either to sell or buy her. I allude now to his speech only, which is lively, animated but rather French its picturesque crudity. As a poet he sculptures like Phidias, and his verse has all the dazzling purity of marble.

I preferred to apply to Madame de Meilhan. On our return to the chateau I questioned her, and learned that my beautiful unknown was named Madame Louise Guerin. At that word "Madame" my heart contracted. Wherefore? I could not tell. Afterwards I learned that she was a widow and poor, that she lived by the labor of those pretty fingers which I had seen dabbling in the water. Further than that, Madame de Meilhan knew nothing, her remarks 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 her beauty, grace and youth, changed into extravagant admiration. Our eyes met as if we had a secret between us; she appeared, and I yielded to the charm of her presence. Edgar observed that she was his mother's companion, who would remain with her until he married. The wretch! if he had not written such fine verses, I would have strangled him on the spot. 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 great vassals. Grave and smiling, she spoke little, but so to the point, and in so sweet a voice, that I cherished in my heart every word that fell from her lips, like pearls from a casket. I also was silent and was astonished, that when she did not speak, any one should dare to open his lips before her. Edgar's witty sallies seemed to be in the worst possible 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 of the siege, every one rose precipitately, to escape the capture and pillage of Lubeck. Edgar rushed into the park, the guests dispersed; and while Madame de Meilhan, bearing with heroic resignation the inconveniences attached to her dignity as mistress of the house, fought by the general's side like Clorinde by the side of Argant, I found myself alone, with the young widow, upon the terrace of the chateau. We talked, and a powerful enchantment compelled me to surrender my soul into her keeping. I amazed myself by confiding to her what I had never told myself.

My most cherished and hidden feelings were drawn irresistibly forth from the inmost recesses of my bosom. When I spoke, I seemed to translate her thoughts; when she in turn replied, she paraphrased mine. In less than an hour I learned to know her. She possessed, at the same time, an experimental mind, which could descend to the root of things, and a tender and inexperienced heart which life had never troubled. Theoretically she was governed by a lofty and precocious reason ripened by misfortune; practically, she was swayed by the dictates of an innocent and untried soul. Until now, she has lived only in the activity of her thoughts; the rest of her being sleeps, seeks or awaits. Who is she? She is not a widow. Albert Guerin is not her name; she has never been married. Where Madame de Meilhan hesitates, I doubt, I decide. How does it happen that the mystery with which she is surrounded has to me all the prestige and lustre of a glowing virtue? How is it that my heart rejoices at it when my prudence should take alarm? Another mystery, which I do not undertake to explain. All that I know is, that she is poor, and that if I had a crown I should wish to ennoble it by placing it upon that lovely brow.

Do not tell me that this is madness; that love is not born of a look or a word, that it must germinate in the heart for a season before it can bear fruit. Enthusiasts live fast. They reach the same end as reason, and by like paths; only reason drags its weary length along, while enthusiasm flies on eagle's wing. Besides, this love has long since budded; it only sought a heart to twine itself around. Is it love? I deceive myself perhaps. Whence this feeling that agitates me? this intoxication that has taken possession of me? this radiance that dazzles me? 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, the instructions that you gave me. That you are interested in Mademoiselle de Chateaudun's destiny suffices to interest me likewise. The Prince de Monbert is expected here; I can therefore send you, in a few days, the information you desire taken on the spot. It has been ten years since I have seen the Prince; he has a brilliant mind and a loyal heart, and he has, in his life, seen more tigers and postilions than any other man in France. I will scrupulously note any change that ten years' travel may have brought about in his manner of thinking and seeing; but I believe that I can safely declare beforehand, that nothing can be found in his frank 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 always receive those that we don't expect. The expected ones inform us of what we already know; the unexpected ones tell us of things entirely new. A philosopher prefers the latter—of which I now send you one.

I passed some hours at Richeport with you and Edgar, and there I made a discovery that you must have made before me, and a reflection that you will make after me. I am sixty years old in my feelings—travel ages one more than anything else—you are twenty-five, according to your baptismal register. How fortunate you are to have some one able to give you advice! How unfortunate I am that my experience has been sad enough to enable me to be that one to give it! But I have a vague presentiment that my advice will bring you happiness, if followed. We should never neglect a presentiment. Every man carries in him a spark of Heaven's intelligence—it is often the torch that illumines the darkness of our future. This is called presentiment.

Read attentively, and do not disturb yourself about the end. I must first explain by what means of observation I made my discovery. Then the denouement will appear in its proper place, which is not at the beginning.

The following is what I saw at the Chateau de Richeport. You did not see it, because you were an actor. I was merely a spectator, and had that advantage over you.

You, Edgar, and myself were in the parlor at noon. It is the hour in the country when one takes shelter behind closed blinds to enjoy a friendly chat. One is always sad, dreamy, meditative at this hour of a lovely summer-day, and can speak carelessly of indifferent things, and at the same time have every thought concentrated upon one beloved object. These are the mysteries of the Demon de Midi, so much dreaded by the poet-king.

There was in one corner of the room a little rosewood-table, so frail that it could be crushed by the weight of a man's hand. On this table was 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 was half-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 the woman of this piano; I nevertheless will swear she exists. Moreover, I know she is young, pretty, has a good figure, is graceful and easy in her manner, and is adored by some one in the chateau. If any ordinary woman had left her embroidery on the table, if she had upset the stool in leaving the piano, two idle nervous young men like yourselves would from curiosity and ennui have examined the embroidery, disarranged the vase of flowers, picked up the stool, and closed the piano. But no hand dared to meddle with this holy disorder under pretext of arranging it. These evidences, still fresh and undisturbed, attest a respect that belongs only to love.

This woman, to me unknown, is then young and pretty, since she is so ardently loved, and by more than one person, as I shall proceed to prove. She has a commanding figure, because her embroidery is fine. I know not if she be maid or wife, but this I do know, if she is not married, the vestiges that she left in the parlor indicate a great independence of position and character. If she is married, she is not governed by her husband, or indeed she may be a widow.

Allow me to recall your conversation with Edgar at dinner. Hitherto I have remarked that in all discussions of painting, music, literature and love, your opinions always coincided with Edgar's; to hear you speak was to hear Edgar, and vice versa. In opinions and sentiments you were twin-brothers. Now listen how you both expressed yourselves before me on that day.

"I believe," said Edgar, "that love is a modern invention, and woman was invented by Andre Chenier, and perfected by Victor Hugo, Dumas and Balzac. We owe this precious conquest to the revolution of '89. Before that, love did not exist; Cupid with his bow and quiver reigned as a sovereign. 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 of a thousand poets. Women were only commended for their eyes—very beautiful things when they are beautiful, but they should not be made the object of exclusive admiration. A beauty possessing no attraction but beautiful eyes would soon lose her sway over the hearts of men. Racine has used the words eye and eyes one hundred and sixty-five times in Andromache. Woman has been deprived of her divine crown of golden or chestnut hair; she has been dethroned by having it covered with white powder. We have avenged woman for her long neglect; we have preserved the eyes and added all the other charms. Thus women love us poets; and in our days Orpheus would not be torn to pieces by snowy hands on the shores of the Strymon."

"Ah! that is just like you, Edgar," you said, with a sad laugh and a would-be calm voice. "At dessert you always give us a dish of paradoxes. I myself greatly prefer Montmorency cherries."