Oh! ray of light! glimmer of sun through a dark cloud!

The handsome Leon de Varezes!  The ugly idea of troubadour beauty!  A fop fashioned by his tailor, and who passes his life looking at his figure reflected in four mirrors as shiny and cold as himself!

I pressed M. de Balaincourt’s hand and once again plunged into the vortex of Paris.

If the handsome Leon were only hideous I would feel nothing but indifference towards him, but he has more sacred rights to my hatred, as you will see.

Three months ago this handsome Leon made a proposal of marriage to Mlle. de Chateaudun—­she refused him.  This is evidently a preconcerted plan; or it is a ruse.  The handsome Leon had a lady friend well known by everybody but himself, and he has deferred this marriage in order to gild, after the manner of Ruolz, his last days of bachelorhood; meanwhile Mlle. de Chateaudun received her liberty, and during this truce I have played the role of suitor.  Either of these conjectures is probable—­both may be true—­one is sufficient to bring about a catastrophe!

This fact is certain, the handsome Leon is at the waters of Ems enjoying his expiring hours of single-blessedness in the society of his painted friend, and his family are keeping Mile. de Chateaudun at the Chateau de Lorgeville till the season at Ems is over.  In a few days the handsome Leon, on pretence of important business, will leave his Dulcinea, and, considering himself freed from an unlawful yoke, will come to the Chateau de Lorgeville to offer his innocent hand and pure homage to Mile. de Chateaudun.  In whatever light the matter is viewed, I am a dupe—­a butt!  I know well that people say:  “Prince Roger is a good fellow” With this reputation a man is exposed to all the feline wickedness of human nature, but when once aroused “the good fellow” is transformed, and all turn pale in his presence.

No, I can never forgive a woman who holds before me a picture of bliss, and then dashes it to the ground—­she owes me this promised happiness, and if she tries to fly from me I have a right to cry “stop thief.”

Ah!  Mlle. de Chateaudun, you thought you could break my heart, and leave me nothing to cherish but the phantom of memory!  Well!  I promise you another ending to your play than you looked for!  We will meet again!

Stupid idiot that I was, to think of writing her an apology to vindicate my innocent share of the scene at the Odeon!  Vindication well spared!  How she would have laughed at my honest candor!...  She shall not have an opportunity of laughing!  Dear Edgar, in writing these disconsolate lines I have lost the calmness that I had imposed upon myself when I began my letter.  I feel that I am devoured by that internal demon that bears a woman’s name in the language of love—­jealousy!  Yes, jealousy fills my soul with bitterness, encircles my brow with a band of iron, and makes me feel a frenzied desire to murder some fellow-being!  During my travels I lost the tolerant manners of civilization.  I have imbibed the rude cruelty of savages—­my jealousy is filled with the storms and fire of the equator.