Think of how he must have entertained and thrilled her with accounts of his adventures:  of storms, of fights with the terrible English, of the chasing of corsairs and the battering of the fleets of Indian princes.  Think of her open-eyed wonder, and of the awakening of love in her heart; and then of her dread, lest after all, despite his consoling words and soft assurances, he, the Comte, the officer, should be forbidden to marry her, the maiden who had only her youth, her beauty, and her character, but no rank, no fortune, to win favour from the proud people who did not know her.  The author is at all events certain of this:  that if the letters had seen the light before old Alexandre Dumas died, he would have pounced upon them with glee, and would have written around them a romance that all the world would have rejoiced to read.

But while we think of what the novelists have missed, we are neglecting the real story, the crisis of which we have now reached.

Seeing Eleonore again, his sensitive heart deeply moved by her sorrow, Laperouse took a manly resolution.  He would marry her despite all obstacles.  He had promised her at her home in Ile-de-France.  He would keep his promise.  He would not spoil her beautiful young life even for his family.

But there was the contract concerning Mademoiselle de Vesian.  What of that?  Clearly Laperouse was in a fix.  Well, a man who has been over twenty-five years at sea has been in a fix many times, and learns that a bold face and tact are good allies.  Remembering the nature of his situation, it will be agreed that the letter he wrote to his mother, announcing his resolve, was a model of good taste and fine feeling: 

“I have seen Eleonore, and I have not been able to resist the remorse by which I am devoured.  My excessive attachment to you had made me violate all that which is most sacred among men.  I forgot the vows of my heart, the cries of my conscience.  I was in Paris for twenty days, and, faithful to my promise to you, I did not go to see her.  But I received a letter from her.  She made no reproach against me, but the most profound sentiment of sadness was expressed in it.  At the instant of reading it the veil fell from my eyes.  My situation filled me with horror.  I am no better in my own eyes than a perjurer, unworthy of Mademoiselle de Vesian, to whom I brought a heart devoured by remorse and by a passion that nothing could extinguish.  I was equally unworthy of Mademoiselle Broudou, and wished to leave her.  My only excuse, my dear mother, is the extreme desire I have always had to please you.  It is for you alone, and for my father, that I wished to marry.  Desiring to live with you for the remainder of my life, I consented to your finding me a wife with whom I could abide.  The choice of Mademoiselle de Vesian had overwhelmed me, because her mother is a woman for whom I have a true attachment; and Heaven is my witness to-day that I should have preferred her daughter to the most brilliant