He also wrote to Monsieur de Vesian, begging him not to interfere with the free inclinations of his daughter, and to remember that “in order to be happy there must be no repugnance to conquer.  I have, however,” he added, “an affair to terminate which does not permit me to dispose of myself entirely.  My mother will tell you the details.  I hope to be free in six weeks or two months.  My happiness will then be inexpressible if I obtain your consent and that of Madame de Vesian, with the certainty of not having opposed the wishes of Mademoiselle, your daughter.”

“I hope to be free”—­did he “hope”?  That was his polite way of putting the matter.  Or he may have believed that he had conquered his love for Eleonore Broudou, and that she, as a French girl who understood his obligations to his family, would—­perhaps after making a few handkerchiefs damp with her tears—­acquiesce.

So the negotiations went on, and at length, in May, 1783, the de Vesian family accepted Laperouse as the fiance of their daughter.  “My project is to live with my family and yours,” he wrote.  “I hope that my wife will love my mother and my sisters, as I feel that I shall love you and yours.  Any other manner of existence is frightful to me, and I have sufficient knowledge of the world and of myself to know that I can only be happy in living thus.”

But in the very month that he wrote contracting himself—­that is precisely the word—­to marry the girl he had never seen, Eleonore, the girl whom he had seen, whom he had loved, and whom he still loved in his heart, came to Paris with her parents.  Laperouse saw her again.  He told her what had occurred.  Of course she wept; what girl would not?  She said, between her sobs, that if it was to be all over between them she would go into a convent.  She could never marry anyone else.

“Mon histoire est un roman,” and here beginneth the new chapter of this real love story.  Why, we wonder, has not some novelist discovered these Laperouse letters and founded a tale upon them?  Is it not a better story even told in bare outline in these few pages, than nine-tenths of the concoctions of the novelists, which are sold in thousands?  Think of the wooing of these two delightful people, the beautiful girl and the gallant sailor, in the ocean isle, with its tropical perfumes and colours, its superb mountain and valley scenery, bathed in eternal sunshine by day and kissed by cool ocean breezes by night—­the isle of Paul and Virginia, the isle which to Alexandre Dumas was the Paradise of the World, an enchanted oasis of the ocean, “all carpeted with greenery and refreshed with cooling streams, where, no matter what the season, you may gently sink asleep beneath the shade of palms and jamrosades, soothed by the babbling of a crystal spring.”