“M. de Meilhan loves you, does he not?” I asked finally, with a vague feeling of uneasiness.

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “he loves me to—­madness!”

“He loves you, since he is jealous.”

“Yes, yes,” she cried again, “jealous as a—­Mussulman.” and then she began to laugh again.

“Why,” I again asked, “if you did not love him, did you stay at Richeport two or three days after I left?”

“Because I expected you to return,” she replied, laying aside her childish gayety and becoming grave and serious.

I told her of my love.  I was sincere, and therefore should have been eloquent.  I saw her eyes fill with tears, which were not this time tears of sorrow.  I unfolded to her my whole life; all that I had hoped for, longed for, suffered down to the very hour when she appeared to me as the enchanting realization of my youthful dreams.

“You ask me,” she said, “to share your destiny, and you do not know who I am, whence I come, or whither I go.”

“You mistake, I know you,” I cried; “you are as noble as you are beautiful; you come from heaven, and you will return to it.  Bear me with you on your wings.”

“Sir, all that is very vague,” she answered, smilingly.

“Listen,” said I.  “It is true that I do not know who you are; but I know, I feel that falsehood has never profaned those lips, nor perverted the brightness of those eyes.  Here is my hand; it is the hand of a gentleman.  Take it without fear or hesitation, that is all I ask.”

“M. de Villiers, it is well,” she said placing her little hand in mine.  “And now,” she added, “do you wish to know my life?”

“No,” I replied, “you can tell me of it when you have given it to me.”

“But—­”

“I have seen you,” said I; “you can tell me nothing.  I feel that there is a mystery in your existence, but I also feel that that mystery is honorable, that you could only conceal a treasure.”

At these words an indefinable smile played around her lips.

“At least,” she cried, “you know certainly that I am poor?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but you have shown yourself worthy of fortune, and I, on my part, hope that I have proved myself not altogether unworthy of poverty.”

The day glided imperceptibly by, enlivened with tender communings.  I examined in all its details the room which my thoughts had so often visited.  It required considerable self-control to repress the inclination to carry to my lips the little lamp which had brought me more delight than Aladdin’s ever could have done.  I spoke of you, madame, mingling your image with my happiness in order to complete it.  I told Louise how you would love her, that she would love you too; she replied that she loved you already.  At evening we parted, and our joyous lamps burned throughout the night.

In the midst of my bliss, I do not forget, madame, the interests that are dear to you.  Have you written to Mademoiselle de Chateaudun as I begged you to do?  Have you written with firmness?  Have you told your young friend that her peace and future are at stake?  Have you pointed out to her the storm ready to burst over her head?  When I left M. de Monbert he was gloomy and irritated.  Let Mademoiselle Chateaudun take care!