It was evident to me, my young friend, that neither of you expressed your genuine convictions and true opinions.  You were sitting opposite, and yet neither looked at the other while speaking.  You both were handsome and charming, but handsome and charming like two English cocks before a fight.  What particularly struck me was that neither of you ever said:  “What is the matter with you to-day, my friend? you seem to delight in contradicting me.”  Edgar did not ask you this question, nor did you ask it of him.  You thought it useless to inquire into the cause of these half-angry contradictions; you both knew what you were about.  You and Edgar both love the same woman.  It is the woman who suddenly retreated from the piano.  Perhaps she left the house after some disagreeable scene between you two in her presence.

I watched all your movements when we three were together in the parlor.  The tone of your voices, naturally sonorous, sounded harsh and discordant; you held in your hand a branch of hibiscus that you idly pulled to pieces.  Edgar opened a magazine and read it upside downwards; it was quite evident that you were a restraint upon each other, and that I was a restraint upon you both.

At intervals Edgar would cast a furtive glance at the open piano, at the embroidery, and the vase of flowers; you unconsciously did the same; but your two glances never met at the same point; when Edgar looked at the flowers, you looked at the piano; if either of you had been alone, you would have never taken your eyes off these trifles that bore the perfumed impression of a beloved woman’s hand, and which seemed to retain some of her personality and to console you in her absence.

You were the last comer in the house adorned by the presence of this woman; you are also the most reasonable, therefore your own sense and what is due to friendship must have already dictated your line of conduct—­let me add my advice in case your conscience is not quite awake—­fly! fly! before it is too late—­linger, and your self-love, your interested vanity, will no longer permit you to give place to a friend who will have become a rival.  Passion has not yet taken deep root in your heart; at present it is nothing more than a fancy, a transitory preference, a pleasant employment of your idle moments.

In the country, every young woman is more or less disposed to break the hearts of young men, like you, who gravitate like satellites.  Women delight in this play—­but like many other tragic plays, it commences with smiles but terminates in tears and blood!  Moreover, my young friend, in withdrawing seasonably, you are not only wise, you are generous!

I know that Edgar has been for a long time deeply in love with this woman; you are merely indulging in a rural flirtation, a momentary caprice.  In a little while, vain rivalry will make you blind, embitter your disposition, and deceive you as to the nature of your sentiments—­believing yourself seriously in love you will be unable to withdraw.  To-day your pride is not interested; wait not until to-morrow.  Edgar is your friend, you must respect his prerogatives.  A woman gave you a wise example to follow—­she suddenly withdrew from the presence of you both when she saw a threatening danger.