“Ah! how I wish I might not leave this world without knowing the happiness of true love,” exclaimed the princess.

“It is nothing to inspire it,” said Madame d’Espard; “the thing is to feel it.  I see many women who are only the pretext for a passion without being both its cause and its effect.”

“The last love I inspired was a beautiful and sacred thing,” said the princess.  “It had a future in it.  Chance had brought me, for once in a way, the man of genius who is due to us, and yet so difficult to obtain; there are more pretty women than men of genius.  But the devil interfered with the affair.”

“Tell me about it, my dear; this is all news to me.”

“I first noticed this beautiful passion about the middle of the winter of 1829.  Every Friday, at the opera, I observed a young man, about thirty years of age, in the orchestra stalls, who evidently came there for me.  He was always in the same stall, gazing at me with eyes of fire, but, seemingly, saddened by the distance between us, perhaps by the hopelessness of reaching me.”

“Poor fellow!  When a man loves he becomes eminently stupid,” said the marquise.

“Between every act he would slip into the corridor,” continued the princess, smiling at her friend’s epigrammatic remark.  “Once or twice, either to see me or to make me see him, he looked through the glass sash of the box exactly opposite to mine.  If I received a visit, I was certain to see him in the corridor close to my door, casting a furtive glance upon me.  He had apparently learned to know the persons belonging to my circle; and he followed them when he saw them turning in the direction of my box, in order to obtain the benefit of the opening door.  I also found my mysterious adorer at the Italian opera-house; there he had a stall directly opposite to my box, where he could gaze at me in naive ecstasy—­oh! it was pretty!  On leaving either house I always found him planted in the lobby, motionless; he was elbowed and jostled, but he never moved.  His eyes grew less brilliant if he saw me on the arm of some favorite.  But not a word, not a letter, no demonstration.  You must acknowledge that was in good taste.  Sometimes, on getting home late at night, I found him sitting upon one of the stone posts of the porte-cochere.  This lover of mine had very handsome eyes, a long, thick, fan-shaped beard, with a moustache and side-whiskers; nothing could be seen of his skin but his white cheek-bones, and a noble forehead; it was truly an antique head.  The prince, as you know, defended the Tuileries on the riverside, during the July days.  He returned to Saint-Cloud that night, when all was lost, and said to me:  ’I came near being killed at four o’clock.  I was aimed at by one of the insurgents, when a young man, with a long beard, whom I have often seen at the opera, and who was leading the attack, threw up the man’s gun, and saved me.’  So my adorer was evidently a republican!