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?