dream, alas! the crystal of my dream, garlanded from hence to the Correze with roses—­ah!  I cannot speak of it—­it is in fragments at my feet, and has long been so.  No, no, all anonymous letters are begging letters; and what sort of begging?  Write yourself to that young woman, if you suppose her young and pretty, and you’ll find out.  There is nothing like experience.  As for me, I can’t reasonably be expected to love every woman; Apollo, at any rate he of Belvedere, is a delicate consumptive who must take care of his health.”

“But when a woman writes to you in this way her excuse must certainly be in her consciousness that she is able to eclipse in tenderness and beauty every other woman,” said Ernest, “and I should think you might feel some curiosity—­”

“Ah,” said Canalis, “permit me, my juvenile friend, to abide by the beautiful duchess who is all my joy.”

“You are right, you are right!” cried Ernest.  However, the young secretary read and re-read Modeste’s letter, striving to guess the mind of its hidden writer.

“There is not the least fine-writing here,” he said, “she does not even talk of your genius; she speaks to your heart.  In your place I should feel tempted by this fragrance of modesty,—­this proposed agreement—­”

“Then, sign it!” cried Canalis, laughing; “answer the letter and go to the end of the adventure yourself.  You shall tell me the results three months hence—­if the affair lasts so long.”

Four days later Modeste received the following letter, written on extremely fine paper, protected by two envelopes, and sealed with the arms of Canalis.

Mademoiselle,—­The admiration for fine works (allowing that my books are such) implies something so lofty and sincere as to protect you from all light jesting, and to justify before the sternest judge the step you have taken in writing to me.

But first I must thank you for the pleasure which such proofs of sympathy afford, even though we may not merit them,—­for the maker of verses and the true poet are equally certain of the intrinsic worth of their writings,—­so readily does self-esteem lend itself to praise.  The best proof of friendship that I can give to an unknown lady in exchange for a faith which allays the sting of criticism, is to share with her the harvest of my own experience, even at the risk of dispelling her most vivid illusions.

Mademoiselle, the noblest adornment of a young girl is the flower of a pure and saintly and irreproachable life.  Are you alone in the world?  If you are, there is no need to say more.  But if you have a family, a father or a mother, think of all the sorrow that might come to them from such a letter as yours addressed to a poet of whom you know nothing personally.  All writers are not angels; they have many defects.  Some are frivolous, heedless, foppish, ambitious, dissipated; and, believe me, no matter how imposing innocence