and light.  A criminal whose verdict hangs in the balance is not more racked with suspense than I, as I own to my temerity.  The smile imaged on your lips, to which my eyes turned ever and again, and alone able to calm the storm roused by the dread of displeasing you.  From my birth no one, not even my mother, has smiled on me.  The beautiful young girl who was designed for me rejected my heart and gave hers to my brother.  Again, in politics all my efforts have been defeated.  In the eyes of my king I have read only thirst for vengeance; from childhood he has been my enemy, and the vote of the Cortes which placed me in power was regarded by him as a personal insult.

“Less than this might breed despondency in the stoutest heart.  Besides, I have no illusion; I know the gracelessness of my person, and am well aware how difficult it is to do justice to the heart within so rugged a shell.  To be loved had ceased to be more than a dream to me when I met you.  Thus when I bound myself to your service I knew that devotion alone could excuse my passion.

“But, as I look upon this portrait and listen to your smile that whispers of rapture, the rays of a hope which I had sternly banished pierced the gloom, like the light of dawn, again to be obscured by rising mists of doubt and fear of your displeasure, if the morning should break to day.  No, it is impossible you should love me yet—­I feel it; but in time, as you make proof of the strength, the constancy, and depth of my affection, you may yield me some foothold in your heart.  If my daring offends you, tell me so without anger, and I will return to my former part.  But if you consent to try and love me, be merciful and break it gently to one who has placed the happiness of his life in the single thought of serving you.”

My dear, as I read these last words, he seemed to rise before me, pale as the night when the camellias told their story and he knew his offering was accepted.  These words, in their humility, were clearly something quite different from the usual flowery rhetoric of lovers, and a wave of feeling broke over me; it was the breath of happiness.

The weather has been atrocious; impossible to go to the Bois without exciting all sorts of suspicions.  Even my mother, who often goes out, regardless of rain, remains at home, and alone.

Wednesday evening.

I have just seen him at the Opera, my dear; he is another man.  He came to our box, introduced by the Sardinian ambassador.

Having read in my eyes that this audacity was taken in good part, he seemed awkwardly conscious of his limbs, and addressed the Marquise d’Espard as “mademoiselle.”  A light far brighter than the glare of the chandeliers flashed from his eyes.  At last he went out with the air of a man who didn’t know what he might do next.

“The Baron de Macumer is in love!” exclaimed Mme. de Maufrigneuse.