it be to feel that you are a small Providence on earth, able to penetrate and instantly gratify the secret wishes of people you like!  Valentine, I begin to distrust myself; a temptation like this is too dangerous for a nature like mine; I feel like saying to this noble, impoverished lady:  here, take these meadows, woods and islands that you so tenderly sigh for—­I could also say to this despairing young poet:  here, take this woman that you so madly love, marry her and be happy ... without remembering that this woman is myself; without stopping to ask if this happiness I promise him will add to my own.

Generosity is to me dangerously attractive!  How I would love to make the fortune of a noble poet!  I am jealous of these foreigners who have lately given us such lessons in generosity.  I would be so happy in bestowing a brilliant future upon one who chose and loved me in my obscurity, but to do this love is necessary, and my heart is broken—­dead!  I have no love to give.

Then again, M. de Meilhan has so much originality of character, and I admit only originality of mind.  He puts his horse in his chamber, which is an original idea, to be sure; but I think horses had better be kept in the stable, where they would certainly be more comfortable.  And these dreadful poets are such positive beings!  Poets are not poetical, my dear ...  Edgar has become romantic since he has been in love with me, but I think it is an hypocrisy, and I mistrust his love.

Edgar is undeniably a talented, superior man, and captivating, as the beautiful Marquise de R. has proved; but I fail to recognise in his love the ideal I dreamed of.  It is not the expression of an eye that he admires, it is the fine shape of the lids, limpid pupils; it is not the ingenuous grace of a smile that pleases him, it is the regularity of the lines, the crimson of the lips; to him beauty of soul adds no charm to a lovely face.  Therefore, this love that a word of mine can render legitimate, frightens me as if it were a guilty passion; it makes me uneasy and timid.  I know you will ridicule me when I say that upon me this passionate poet has the same effect as women abounding in imagination and originality of mind have upon men, who admire but never marry them.  He has none of that affectionate gravity so necessary in a husband.  On every subject our ideas differ; this different way of seeing things would cause endless disputes between us, or what is sadder yet, mutual sacrifices.  Everybody adores the charming Edgar, I say Edgar, for it is by this name I daily hear him praised.  I wish I could love him too!  He was astonished to find me at his mother’s house yesterday.  Since my first visit to Richeport, Mad. de Meilhan would not allow a single day to pass without my seeing her; each day she contrived a new pretext to attract me; a piece of tapestry work to be designed, a view of the Abbey to be painted, a new book to read aloud or some music to try; the other evening it was raining