My aunt knew nothing of this inner life.  How could she, who has made a paradise for herself within the two acres of her convent, understand my revolt against life?  A religious life, if embraced by girls of our age, demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we, sweetheart, do not possess, or else an ardor for self-sacrifice like that which makes my aunt so noble a character.  But she sacrificed herself for a brother to whom she was devoted; to do the same for an unknown person or an idea is surely more than can be asked of mortals.

For the last fortnight I have been gulping down so many reckless words, burying so many reflections in my bosom, and accumulating such a store of things to tell, fit for your ear alone, that I should certainly have been suffocated but for the resource of letter-writing as a sorry substitute for our beloved talks.  How hungry one’s heart gets!  I am beginning my journal this morning, and I picture to myself that yours is already started, and that, in a few days, I shall be at home in your beautiful Gemenos valley, which I know only through your descriptions, just as you will live that Paris life, revealed to you hitherto only in our dreams.

Well, then, sweet child, know that on a certain morning—­a red-letter day in my life—­there arrived from Paris a lady companion and Philippe, the last remaining of my grandmother’s valets, charged to carry me off.  When my aunt summoned me to her room and told me the news, I could not speak for joy, and only gazed at her stupidly.

“My child,” she said, in her guttural voice, “I can see that you leave me without regret, but this farewell is not the last; we shall meet again.  God has placed on your forehead the sign of the elect.  You have the pride which leads to heaven or to hell, but your nature is too noble to choose the downward path.  I know you better than you know yourself; with you, passion, I can see, will be very different from what it is with most women.”

She drew me gently to her and kissed my forehead.  The kiss made my flesh creep, for it burned with that consuming fire which eats away her life, which has turned to black the azure of her eyes, and softened the lines about them, has furrowed the warm ivory of her temples, and cast a sallow tinge over the beautiful face.

Before replying, I kissed her hands.

“Dear aunt,” I said, “I shall never forget your kindness; and if it has not made your nunnery all that it ought to be for my health of body and soul, you may be sure nothing short of a broken heart will bring me back again—­and that you would not wish for me.  You will not see me here again till my royal lover has deserted me, and I warn you that if I catch him, death alone shall tear him from me.  I fear no Montespan.”

She smiled and said: 

“Go, madcap, and take your idle fancies with you.  There is certainly more of the bold Montespan in you than of the gentle la Valliere.”