Pauline went to her room after our amorous conflict, and I did not see her again till dinner-time; but when I did see her I thought her an angel.  Her face had caught the hues of the lily and the rose, and had an air of happiness I could not help admiring.

As we both wanted to have our portraits taken, I asked Martinelli to send me the best miniature-painter in London.  He sent a Jew, who succeeded admirably.  I had my miniature mounted in a ring and gave it to Pauline; and this was the only present she would accept from me, who would have thought myself all the richer if she had accepted all I had.

We spent three weeks in a happy dream which no pen can describe.  I was quite well again, and we tasted all the sweets of love together.  All day and all night we were together, our desires were satisfied only to be renewed; we enjoyed the extremest bliss.  In a word, it is difficult to form a just idea of the state of two individuals who enjoy all the range of physical and mental pleasures together, whose life is for the present without thought of the future; whose joys are mutual and continual; such, nevertheless, was the position of myself and my divine Pauline.

Every day I discovered in her some fresh perfection which made me love her more; her nature was inexhaustible in its treasures, for her mental qualities even surpassed her physical beauties, and an excellent education had wonderfully increased the powers of her intelligence.  With all the beauty and grace of a woman she had that exalted character which is the lot of the best of men.  She began to flatter herself that the fatal letter would never come, and the count was little more than a dream of the past.  Sometimes she would say that she could not understand how a pretty face could exercise such a strong influence over us in spite of our reason.

“I have found out too late,” she added, “that chance alone can make a marriage, contracted for such physical reasons, happy.”

The 1st of August was a fatal day for both of us.  Pauline received a letter from Lisbon, which summoned her home without delay, and I had a letter from Paris announcing the death of Madame d’Urfe.  Madame du Rumain told me that on the evidence of her maid the doctors had pronounced her death to be due to an overdose of the liquid she called “The Panacea.”  She added that a will had been found which savoured of a lunatic asylum, for she had left all her wealth to the son or daughter that should be born of her, declaring that she was with child.  I was to be the governor of the infant; this vexed me exceedingly, as I knew I should be the laughing-stock of Paris for a week at least.  Her daughter, the Comtesse de Chatelet, had taken possession of all her real estate and of her pocket-book, which contained, to my surprise, four hundred thousand francs.  It was a great shock for me, but the contents of the two letters Pauline had received was a greater blow.  One was