We left Pont de l’Arche the other day with sad and anxious hearts; during the journey Mad. de Meilhan, as if doubting the strength of my resolution and the ardor of my devotion, dilated enthusiastically upon the merits of her son.  She boasted of his generosity, of his disinterestedness and sincerity; she mentioned the names of several wealthy young ladies whom he had refused to marry during the last two or three years.  She spoke of his great success as a poet and a brilliant man.  She impressed upon me that a noble love could exercise such a happy influence upon his genius, and said it was in my power to make him a good and happy man for life, by accepting this love, which she described to me in such touching language, that I felt moved and impressed, if not with love, at least with tender appreciation.  She said Edgar had never loved any one as he had loved me—­this passion had changed all his ideas—­he lived for me alone.  To indure him to listen to any one it was necessary to bring my name in the conversation so as to secure his ear; he spent his days and nights composing poems in my honor.  He should have returned to Paris in response to the beautiful Marquise de R.’s sighs and smiles, but he never had the courage to leave me; for me he had pitilessly sacrificed this woman, who was lovely, witty and the reigning belle of Paris.  She mournfully told me of the wild foolish things he would do upon his return to Richeport, after having made fruitless attempts to see me at Pont de l’Arche; his cruelty to his favorite horse, his violence against the flowers along the path, that he would cut to pieces with his whip; his sullen, mute despair; his extravagant talk to her; her own uneasiness; her useless prayers; and finally this fatal departure that she had vainly endeavored to prevent.  She saw that I was affected by what she said, she seized my hand and called down blessing’s upon me, thanking me a thousand times passionately and imperiously, as if to compel me to accede to her wishes.

I sorrowfully reflected upon all this trouble that I had caused, and was frightened at the conviction that I had by a few engaging smiles and a little harmless coquetry inspired so violent a passion.  Thinking thus, I did justice to Edgar, and acknowledged that some reparation was due to him.  He must have taken all these deceptive smiles to himself; when I first arrived at Pont de l’Arche, I had no scruples about being attractive, I expected to leave in a few days never to return again.  Since then I had without pity refused his love, it is true; but could he believe this proud disdain to be genuine, when, after this decisive explanation, he found me tranquilly established at his mother’s house?  And there could he follow the different caprices of my mind, divine those temptations of generosity which first moved me in his favor, and then discover this wild love that was suddenly born in my soul for a phantom that I had only seen for a few hours?....  Had he not, on the contrary, a right to believe that