“You cannot comprehend the ecstasy of a man who loves you, and the despair of a man who loses you.  Before knowing you I never could have imagined these two extremes, separated by a whole world and brought together in one instant.  To be envied by the angels—­to breathe the air of heaven—­to seek among the divine joys for a name to give one’s happiness, and suddenly, like Lucifer, to be dashed by a thunderbolt into an abyss of darkness, and suffer the living death of the damned!

“This is your work!

“No, it cannot be a jest, it is not a vengeance; one does not jest with real love, one does does not take vengeance on an innocent man; then it must be a test! a test! ah well, it has been borne long enough, and my bleeding heart cries out to you for mercy.  If you prolong this ordeal, you will soon have no occasion to doubt my love!... your grief will be remorse.

“ROGER.”

Yes, you are right this time, my dear Prince; my sorrow is remorse, deep remorse; I shall never forgive myself for having been momentarily touched by your hear-trending moans and for having shed real tears over your dramatic pathos.

I was seated in the corner of our box, trembling with emotion and weeping over these tender reproaches—­yes, I wept!—­he seemed so sad, so true to me—­I was in an humble frame of mind, thoroughly convinced by this touching appeal that I had been wicked and unjust to doubt so faithful a heart.  I was overcome by the magnitude of my offence—­at having caused this great despair by my cruelty.  Each word of this elaborate dirge was a dagger to my heart; I credulously admired the eloquence and simplicity of the style; I accepted as beautiful writing all these striking images—­these antitheses full of passion and pretension:  “Reason responded to by insanity.” “The power of love that gives him strength to hold a pen.  Extremes separated by a whole world and brought together in an instant, and this living death that he suffers, this name for his past happiness that had to be sought for among the joys of heaven!”

I accepted as gospel truth all these high-flown fictions, and was astonished at nothing until I came to the Lucifer part; that, I confess, rather startled me—­but the finishing tirade composed me.  I thought it fascinating, thrilling, heart-rending!  In my enthusiastic pity I was, by way of expiation, admiring the whole letter when I was disturbed by a frightful noise made by people entering the adjoining box.  I felt angry at their insulting my sadness with their heartless gayety.  I continue to read, admire and weep—­my neighbors continue to laugh and make a noise.  Amidst this uproar I recognise a familiar voice—­I listen—­it is certainly the Prince de Monbert—­I cannot be mistaken.  Probably he has come here with strangers—­he has travelled so much that he is obliged to do the honors of Paris to grand ladies who were polite to him abroad—­but from what part of the world could these grand ladies have come?  They seem to be indulging in a queer style of conversation.  One of them boldly looked in our box, and exclaimed, “Four women!  Four monsters!” I recognised her as a woman I had seen at the Versailles races—­all was explained.