I went into the garden; the sunbeams checkered the steps of the porch; the wilted iris drooped on its stem, and the acacia flowers strewed the pathway.  Apropos of acacia flowers, do you know, that fried in batter, they make excellent fritters?  Finding myself alone in the walks where I had strolled with her, I do not know how it happened, but I felt my heart swell, and I sighed like a young abbe of the 17th century.

I returned to the chateau, having no excuse for remaining longer, vexed, disappointed, wearied, idle—­the habit of seeing Louise every day had grown upon me.

And habit is everything to poor humanity, as that graceful poet Alfred de Musset says.  My feet only know the way to the post-office; what shall I do with myself while this visit lasts?  I tried to read, but my attention wandered; I skipped the lines, and read the same paragraph over twice; my book having fallen down I picked it up and read it for one whole hour upside down, without knowing it—­I wished to make a monosyllabic sonnet—­extremely interesting occupation—­and failed.  My quatrains were tedious, and my tercets entirely too diffuse.

My mother begins to be uneasy at my dullness; she has asked twice if I were sick—­I have fallen off already a quarter of a pound; for nothing is more enraging than to be deserted at the most critical period of one’s infatuation!  Ixion of Normandy, my Juno is a screen-painter, I open my arms and clasp only a cloud!  My position, similar to yours, cannot, however, be compared with it—­mine only relates to a trifling flirtation, a thwarted fancy, while yours is a serious passion for a woman of your own rank who has accepted your hand, and therefore has no right to trifle with you,—­she must be found, if only for vengeance!

Remorse consumes me because of my sentimental stupidity by moonlight.  Had I profited by the night, the solitude and the occasion, Louise had not left me; she saw clearly that I loved her, and was not displeased at the discovery.  Women are strange mixtures of timidity and rashness.

Perhaps she has gone to join her lover, some saw-bones, some counting-house Lovelace, while I languish here in vain, like Celadon or Lygdamis of cooing memory.

This is not at all probable, however, for Madame Taverneau would not compromise her respectability so far as to act as chaperon to the loves of Louise Guerin.  After all, what is it to me?  I am very good to trouble myself about the freaks of a prudish screen-painter!  She will return, because the hired piano has not been sent back to Rouen, and not a soul in the house knows a note of music but Louise, who plays quadrilles and waltzes with considerable taste, an accomplishment she owes to her mistress of painting, who had seen better days and possessed some skill.

Do not be too much flattered by this letter of grievances, for I only wanted an excuse to go to the post-office to see if Louise has returned—­suppose she has not! the thought drives the blood back to my heart.