On Sunday I went to hear mass in the beautiful church at Pont de l’Arche, a splendid ruin that looks like a heap of stony lacework, lovely guipure torn to pieces; while I was there a lady came in and sat beside me; it was Madame de Meilhan.  I recognised her at once, having been accustomed to seeing her every Sunday at mass.  As it was late, and the services were almost ended, I thought it very natural that she should sit by me to avoid walking the length of the aisle to reach her own pew, so I continued to read my prayers without paying any attention to her, but she fastened her eyes upon me in such a peculiar way that I, in my turn, felt compelled to look up at her, and was startled by the alteration of her face; suddenly she tottered and fell fainting on Madame Taverneau’s shoulder.  She was taken out of the church, and the fresh air soon restored her to consciousness.  She seemed agitated when she saw me near her, but the interest I showed in her sickness seemed to reassure her; she gracefully thanked me for my kind attention, and then looked at me in a way that was very embarrassing.  I invited her to return with me to Madame Taverneau’s and rest herself; she accepted the offer, and Madame Taverneau carried her off with great pomp.  There Madame de Meilhan explained how she had walked alone from Richeport in spite of the excessive heat, at the risk of making herself ill, because her son had taken the coachman and horses and left home suddenly that morning without saying where he was going.  As she said this she looked at me significantly.  I bore these questioning looks with proud calmness.  I must tell you that the evening before, M de Meilhan had called on me during the absence of Madame Taverneau and her husband.  The danger of the situation inspired me.  I treated him with such coldness, I reached a degree of dignity so magnificent that the great poet finally comprehended there are some glaciers inaccessible, even to him.  He left me, furious and disconsolate, but I do him the justice to say that he was more disconsolate than furious.  This real sorrow made me think deeply.  If he loved me seriously, how culpable was my conduct!  I had been too coquettish towards him; he could not know that this coquetry was only a ruse; that while appearing to be so devoted to him my whole mind was filled with another.  Sincere love should always be respected; one is not compelled to share it, but then one has no right to insult it.

The uneasiness of Madame de Meilhan; her conduct towards me—­for I was certain she had purposely come late to mass and taken a seat by me for the purpose of speaking to me and finding out what sort of a person I was—­the uneasiness of this devoted mother was to me a language more convincing of the sincerity of her son’s sentiments than all the protestations of love he could have uttered in years.  A mother’s anxiety is an unmistakable symptom; it is more significant than all others.  The jealousy of a rival is not so certain an indication; distrustful love may be deceived, but maternal instinct never is.  Now, to induce a woman of Madame de Meilhan’s spirit and character to come agitated and trembling to see me, ... why, I can say it without vanity, her son must be madly in love, and she wished at all costs either to destroy or cure this fatal passion that made him so unhappy.