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