After we had been a fortnight at Berne, my housekeeper received a letter from Soleure.  It came from Lebel.  As I saw she read it with great attention, I asked her what it was about.

“Take it and read it,” said she; and she sat down in front of me to read my soul by the play of my features.

Lebel asked her, in concise terms, if she would become his wife.

“I have only put off the proposition,” said he, “to set my affairs in order, and to see if I could afford to marry you, even if the consent of the ambassador were denied us.  I find I am rich enough to live well in Berne or elsewhere without the necessity of my working; however I shall not have to face the alternative, for at the first hint of the matter M. de Chavigni gave his consent with the best grace imaginable.”

He went on begging her not to keep him long waiting for a reply, and to tell him in the first place if she consented; in the second, whether she would like to live at Berne and be mistress in her own house, or whether she would prefer to return to Soleure and live with the ambassador, which latter plan might bring them some profit.  He ended by declaring that whatever she had would be for her sole use, and that he would give her a dower of a hundred thousand francs.  He did not say a word about me.

“Dearest,” said I, “you are at perfect liberty to choose your own course, but I cannot contemplate your leaving me without considering myself as the most unhappy of men.”

“And if I lose you I should be the most unhappy of women; for if you love me I care not whether we are married or no.”

“Very good; but what answer are you going to make.”

“You shall see my letter to-morrow.  I shall tell him politely but plainly that I love you, that I am yours, that I am happy, and that it is thus impossible for me to accept his flattering propositions.  I shall also say that I appreciate his generosity, and that if I were wise I should accept him, but that being the slave of my love for you I can only follow my inclination.”

“I think you give an excellent turn to your letter.  In refusing such an offer you could not have better reasons than those you give, and it would be absurd to try and persuade him that we are not lovers, as the thing is self-evident.  Nevertheless, my darling, the letter saddens me.”

“Why, dearest?”

“Because I have not a hundred thousand francs to offer you.”

“I despise them; and if you were to offer me such a sum, I should only accept it to lay it at your feet.  You are certainly not destined to become miserable, but if that should come to pass, be sure that I should be only too happy to share your misery.”

We fell into one another’s arms, and love made us taste all its pleasures.  Nevertheless, in the midst of bliss, some tinge of sadness gained upon our souls.  Languishing love seems to redouble its strength, but it is only in appearance; sadness exhausts love more than enjoyment.  Love is a madcap who must be fed on laughter and mirth, otherwise he dies of inanition.