Spite of the debts, spite of the difference in age, spite of the poetry, an end is to be placed in a few days to a heroic resistance of more than nine months, during which he has not been allowed even to kiss my hand, and so also ends the season of our sweet, pure love-making.  This is not the mere surrender of a raw, ignorant, and curious girl, as it was eight years ago; the gift is deliberate, and my lover awaits it with such loyal patience that, if I pleased, I could postpone the marriage for a year.  There is no servility in this; love’s slave he may be, but the heart is not slavish.  Never have I seen a man of nobler feeling, or one whose tenderness was more rich in fancy, whose love bore more the impress of his soul.  Alas! my sweet one, the art of love is his by heritage.  A few words will tell his story.

My friend has no other name than Marie Gaston.  He is the illegitimate son of the beautiful Lady Brandon, whose fame must have reached you, and who died broken-hearted, a victim to the vengeance of Lady Dudley —­a ghastly story of which the dear boy knows nothing.  Marie Gaston was placed by his brother Louis in a boarding-school at Tours, where he remained till 1827.  Louis, after settling his brother at school, sailed a few days later for foreign parts “to seek his fortune,” to use the words of an old woman who had played the part of Providence to him.  This brother turned sailor used to write him, at long intervals, letters quite fatherly in tone, and breathing a noble spirit; but a struggling life never allowed him to return home.  His last letter told Marie that he had been appointed Captain in the navy of some American republic, and exhorted him to hope for better days.

Alas! since then three years have passed, and my poor poet has never heard again.  So dearly did he love his brother, that he would have started to look for him but for Daniel d’Arthez, the well-known author, who took a generous interest in Marie Gaston, and prevented him carrying out his mad impulse.  Nor was this all; often would he give him a crust and a corner, as the poet puts it in his graphic words.

For, in truth, the poor lad was in terrible straits; he was actually innocent enough to believe—­incredible as it seems—­that genius was the shortest road to fortune, and from 1828 to 1833 his one aim has been to make a name for himself in letters.  Naturally his life was a frightful tissue of toil and hardships, alternating between hope and despair.  The good advice of d’Arthez could not prevail against the allurements of ambition, and his debts went on growing like a snowball.  Still he was beginning to come into notice when I happened to meet him at Mme. d’Espard’s.  At first sight he inspired me, unconsciously to himself, with the most vivid sympathy.  How did it come about that this virgin heart has been left for me?  The fact is that my poet combines genius and cleverness, passion and pride, and women are always afraid of greatness which has no weak side to it.  How many victories were needed before Josephine could see the great Napoleon in the little Bonaparte whom she had married.