“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!