To see it again is one of the liveliest pleasures that my return to Paris offers.  I shall find everything in the same order as when I left; but will the little star shine from the same corner of the heavens?

Thanks to Frederick’s care my affairs were in order, and I set out immediately for Rome, because when one is expected from the end of the world one must at least return from somewhere.

Such is, dear Edgar, the history of my journeys and my love affairs.  Keep them sacred.  We are all so worthless, that, when one of us does some good by chance, he should remain silent for fear of humiliating his neighbor.

My health once established, I shall go to my mountains of Creuse and then come to you.  Do not expect me until July; at that time Don Quixote will make his appearance under the apple trees of Richeport, provided, however, he is not caught up on this route by Lady Penock or some windmill.

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS.

V.

ROGER DE MONBERT to MONSIEUR DE MEILHAN,
Richeport,
Pont-de-l’Arche (Eure).

PARIS, 24th May, 18—­,

Your letter did me good, my dear Edgar, because it came unexpected, from the domain of epistolary consolation.  From any friend but you I would have received a sympathizing re-echo of my own accents of despair.  From you I looked for a tranquillizing sedative, and you surprise me with a reanimating restorative.

Your charming philosophy has indeed invented for mortals a remedy unknown to the four faculties.

Thanks to you, I breathe freely this morning.  ’Tis necessary for us to take breath during ardent crises of despair.  A deep breath brings back the power of resignation to our hearts.  Yet I am not duped by your too skilful friendship.  I clearly perceive the interest you take in my situation in spite of your artistically labored adroitness to conceal it.  This knowledge induces me to write you the second chapter of my history, quite sure that you will read it with a serious brow and answer it with a smiling pen.

Young people of your disposition, either from deep calculation or by happy instinct, substitute caprice for passion; they amuse themselves by walking by the side of love, but never meet it face to face.  For them women exist, but never one woman.  This system with them succeeds for a season, sometimes it lasts for ever.  I have known some old men who made this scheme the glory of their lives, and who kept it up from mere force of habit till their heads were white.

You, my dear Edgar, will not have the benefit of final impenitence.  At present the ardor of your soul is tempered by the suave indolence of your disposition.

Love is the most merciless and wearisome of all labors, and you are far too lazy to toil at it.  When you suddenly look into the secret depths of your self, you will be frightened by discovering the germ of a serious passion; then you will try to escape on the wings of fancy to the realms of easy and careless pleasure.  The fact of my having penetrated, unknown to you, this secret recess of your soul, makes me venture to confide my sorrows to you; continue to laugh at them, your railing will be understood, while friendship will ignore the borrowed mask and trust in the faithful face beneath.