“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!