Oh, how curious I was to find out what Roger had written to M. de Meilhan!  Roger had a confidant!  He had told him about me!  What could he have said?  Oh, this dreadful letter!  What would I not give to see it!  My sole thought is, how can I obtain it; unconsciously I gazed at M. de Meilhan, with an uneasy perplexity that must have astonished him and given him a queer idea of my character.

I was unable to conceal my joy, when I heard him say he lived at Richeport, and that he intended stopping at Pont de l’Arche, which is but a short distance from his estate; my satisfaction must have appeared very strange.

A dreadful storm detained us two hours in the neighborhood of the depot.  We remained in company under the shed, and watched the falling rain.  My situation was embarrassing; I wished to be agreeable and polite to M. de Meilhan that I might encourage him to call at Madama Taverneau’s, Pont de l’Arche, and then again I did not wish to be so very gracious and attentive as to inspire him with too much assurance.  It was a difficult game to play.  I must boldly risk making a bad impression, and at the same time keep him at a respectful distance.  Well, I succeeded in solving the problem within the pale of legitimate curiosity, offering to share with my companion in misfortune a box of bon-bons, intended for Madame Taverneau.

But what attentions he showered on me before meriting this great sacrifice!  What ingenious umbrellas he improvised for me under this inhospitable shed, that grudgingly lent us a perfidious and capricious shelter!  What charming seats, skilfully made of sticks and logs driven into the wet ground!

When the storm was over M. de Meilhan offered to escort us to Pont de l’Arche; I accepted, much to the astonishment of the severe Blanchard, who cannot understand the sudden change in my conduct, and begins to suspect me of being in search of adventures.

When we reached our destination, and Madam Taverneau heard that M. de Meilhan had been my escort, she was in such a state of excitement that she could talk of nothing else.  M. de Meilhan is highly thought of here, where his family have resided many years; his mother is venerated, and he himself beloved by all that know him.  He has a moderate fortune; with it he quietly dispenses charity and daily confers benefits with an unknown hand.  He seems to be very agreeable and witty.  I have never met so brilliant a man, except M. de Monbert.  How charming it would be to hear them talk together!

But that letter!  What would I not give for that letter!  If I could only read the first four lines!  I would find out what I want to know.  These first lines would tell me if Roger is really sad; if he is to be pitied, and if it is time for me to console him.  I rely a little upon the indiscretion of M. de Meilhan to enlighten me.  Poets are like doctors; all artists are kindred spirits; they cannot refrain from telling a romantic love affair any more than a physician can from citing his last remarkable case; the former never name their friends, the latter never betray their patients.  But when we know beforehand, as I do, the name of the hero or patient, we soon complete the semi-indiscretion.