which darken the prospects of our friend.  If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father’s fortune?  Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods.  It is said that he gives his daughter a “dot” of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest’s behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story.  As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris.  I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,—­simply by the transmission of the father-in-law’s title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him.  With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife—­luckless fellow!

Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle!  Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,—­my bones will love thee in the grave!  Ah!  I cannot bear this separation.  If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris.

Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year?  The billing and cooing of the “handsome disconsolate,” compared with the accents of our happy love—­so true and changeless for now ten years!—­have given me a great contempt for marriage.  I had never seen the thing so near.  Ah, dearest! what the world calls a “false step” brings two beings nearer together than the law—­does it not?

The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication.

The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours.  Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior’s silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene’s letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon.  Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness.  Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,—­so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied.