that inborn grace which can be neither given nor acquired, but which Greek art has embodied in statuary, that careless innocence of the ancient poets which, even in frank undress, seems to clothe the soul as with a veil of modesty—­this is our ideal, born of our own conceptions, and linked with the universal harmony which seems to be the reality underlying all created things.  To find this ideal in life is the problem which haunts the imagination of every woman—­in Gaston I have found it.

Ah! dear, I did not know what love could be, united to youth, talent, and beauty.  Gaston has no affectations, he moves with an instinctive and unstudied grace.  When we walk alone together in the woods, his arm round my waist, mine resting on his shoulder, body fitting to body, and head touching head, our step is so even, uniform, and gentle, that those who see us pass by night take the vision for a single figure gliding over the graveled walks, like one of Homer’s immortals.  A like harmony exists in our desires, our thoughts, our words.  More than once on some evening when a passing shower has left the leaves glistening and the moist grass bright with a more vivid green, it has chanced that we ended our walk without uttering a word, as we listened to the patter of falling drops and feasted our eyes on the scarlet sunset, flaring on the hilltops or dyeing with a warmer tone the gray of the tree trunks.

Beyond a doubt our thoughts then rose to Heaven in silent prayer, pleading as it were, for our happiness.  At times a cry would escape us at the moment when some sudden bend on the path opened up fresh beauties.  What words can tell how honey-sweet, how full of meaning, is a kiss half-timidly exchanged within the sanctuary of nature—­it is as though God had created us to worship in this fashion.

And we return home, each more deeply in love than ever.

A love so passionate between old married people would be an outrage on society in Paris; only in the heart of the woods, like lovers, can we give scope to it.

To come to particulars, Gaston is of middle height—­the height proper to all men of purpose.  Neither stout nor thin, his figure is admirably made, with ample fulness in the proportions, while every motion is agile; he leaps a ditch with the easy grace of a wild animal.  Whatever his attitude, he seems to have an instinctive sense of balance, and this is very rare in men who are given to thought.  Though a dark man, he has an extraordinarily fair complexion; his jet-black hair contrasts finely with the lustreless tints of the neck and forehead.  He has the tragic head of Louis XIII.  His moustache and tuft have been allowed to grow, but I made him shave the whiskers and beard, which were getting too common.  An honorable poverty has been his safeguard, and handed him over to me, unsoiled by the loose life which ruins so many young men.  His teeth are magnificent, and he has a constitution of iron.  His keen blue eyes, for me full of tenderness, will flash like lightning at any rousing thought.