I know not if every one else is impressed as I was upon seeing the ocean for the first time.  I felt released from all ties, purified of all hatred, and even of all earthly love; I was freed, calm, strong, armed, ready to brave all the evils of life, like a being who had received from God a right to disdain the world.  The ocean and the sky have this good effect upon us—­they wean us from worldly pleasures.

Upon reaching Paris, I went at once to your father’s to inquire about you, and had my uneasiness about you set at rest.  You must have left Geneva by this time; I hope soon to receive a letter from you.  I am not staying with my cousin.  I am living in my dear little garret.  I wish a long time to elapse before I again become Mlle. de Chateaudun.  I wish time to recover from the rude shocks I have had.  What do you think of my last experience?  What a perfect success was my theory of discouragement!  Alas! too perfect.  First trial:  Western despair and champagne!  Second trial:  Eastern despair and hashisch!—­Not to speak of the consolatory accessories, snowy-armed beauties and ebony-armed slaves!  I would be very unsophisticated indeed if I did not consider myself sufficiently enlightened.  I implore you not to speak to me of your hero whom you wish me to marry; I am determined never to marry.  I shall love an image, cherish a star.  The little light has returned.  I see it shining as I write to you.  Yes, these poetic loves are all-sufficient for my wounded soul.  One thing disturbs me; they have cut down the large trees in front of my window.  To-morrow, perhaps, I shall at last see the being that dwells in this fraternal garret....  Valentine—­suppose it should be my long-sought ideal!...  I tremble! perhaps a third disenchantment awaits me....  Good-night, my dear Valentine, I embrace you.  I am very tired, but very happy ... it is so delightful to be relieved of all uneasiness, to feel that you are not compelled to console any one.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.

XXX.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN to the PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste Restante (Rouen).

PARIS, July 27th 18—.

My dear Roger, at the risk of bringing down upon my head the ridicule merited by men who fire a pistol above their heads after having left on their table the night before the most thrilling adieux to the world, I must confess that I have not gone; you have a perfect right to drive me out of Europe; I promised to go to America, and you can compel me to fulfil my promise; be clement, do not overpower me with ridicule; do not riddle me with the fire of your mocking artillery; my sorrow, even though I remain in the old world, is none the less crushing.

I must tell you how it all happened.