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.