never saw anything so hideous; it is even worse than your frightful clock with Columbus discovering America!  Madame Taverneau thought that M. de Meilhan, being a poet and an artist, would compliment her upon possessing so rare and valuable a work of art.  Fortunately he said nothing—­he even refrained from smiling; this showed his great generosity and delicacy, for it is only a man of refinement and delicacy that respects one’s illusions—­especially when they are illusions in imitation bronze!

Upon my arrival here this morning, I was pained to hear that the trees in front of my window are to be cut down; this news ought not to disturb me in the least, as I never expect to return to this house again, yet it makes me very sad; these old trees are so beautiful, and I have thought so many things as I would sit and watch their long branches waving in the summer breeze!...and the little light that shone like a star through their thick foliage! shall I never see it again?  It disappeared a year ago, and I used to hope it would suddenly shine again.  I thought:  It is absent, but will soon return to cheer my solitude.  Sometimes I would say:  “Perhaps my ideal dwells in that little garret!” O foolish idea!  Vain hope!  I must renounce all this poetry of youth; serious age creeps on with his imposing escort of austere duties; he dispels the charming fancies that console us in our sorrows; he extinguishes the bright lights that guide us through darkness—­drives away the beloved ideal—­spreads a cloud over the cherished star, and harshly cries out:  “Be reasonable!” which means:  No longer hope to be happy.

Ah!  Madame Taverneau calls me; she is in a hurry to start for the Odeon; it is very early, and I don’t wish to go until the last moment.  I have sent to the Hotel de Langeac for my letters, and must wait to glance over them—­they might contain news about Roger.

I have just caught a glimpse of the two ladies Madame Taverneau invited to accompany us to the theatre....  I see a wine-colored bonnet trimmed with green ribbons—­it is horrible to look upon!  Heavens—­there comes another! more intolerable than the first one! bright yellow adorned with blue feathers!...  Mercy! what a face within the bonnet! and what a figure beneath the face!  She has something glistening in her hand ... it is ... a ... would you believe it? a travelling-bag covered with steel beads!... she intends taking it to the theatre!... do my eyes deceive me? can she be filling it with oranges to carry with her?... she dare not disgrace us by eating oranges.

X.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN to the PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Saint Dominique Street, Paris.

RICHEPORT, June 3d, 18—­

It seems, my dear Roger, that we are engaged in a game of interrupted addresses.  For my Louise Guerin, like your Irene de Chateaudun, has gone I know not where, leaving me to struggle, in this land of apple trees, with an incipient passion which she has planted in my breast.  Flight has this year become an epidemic among women.