But he was overruled by other and less fiery statesmen.  Peace was made, and Gambetta retired for a moment into private life.  If he had not succeeded in expelling the German hosts he had, at any rate, made Bismarck hate him, and he had saved the honor of France.

It was while the National Assembly at Versailles was debating the terms of peace with Germany that Gambetta once more delivered a noble and patriotic speech.  As he concluded he felt a strange magnetic attraction; and, sweeping the audience with a glance, he saw before him, not very far away, the same woman with the long black gloves, having about her still an air of mystery, but again meeting his eyes with her own, suffused with feeling.

Gambetta hurried to an anteroom and hastily scribbled the following note: 

At last I see you once more.  Is it really you?

The scrawl was taken to her by a discreet official, and this time she received the letter, pressed it to her heart, and then slipped it into the bodice of her gown.  But this time, as before, she left without making a reply.

It was an encouragement, yet it gave no opening to Gambetta—­for she returned to the National Assembly no more.  But now his heart was full of hope, for he was convinced with a very deep conviction that somewhere, soon, and in some way he would meet this woman, who had become to him one of the intense realities of his life.  He did not know her name.  They had never exchanged a word.  Yet he was sure that time would bring them close together.

His intuition was unerring.  What we call chance often seems to know what it is doing.  Within a year after the occurrence that has just been narrated an old friend of Gambetta’s met with an accident which confined him to his house.  The statesman strolled to his friend’s residence.  The accident was a trifling one, and the mistress of the house was holding a sort of informal reception, answering questions that were asked her by the numerous acquaintances who called.

As Gambetta was speaking, of a sudden he saw before him, at the extremity of the room, the lady of his dreams, the sphinx of his waking hours, the woman who four years earlier had torn up the note which he addressed to her, but who more recently had kept his written words.  Both of them were deeply agitated, yet both of them carried off the situation without betraying themselves to others, Gambetta approached, and they exchanged a few casual commonplaces.  But now, close together, eye and voice spoke of what was in their hearts.

Presently the lady took her leave.  Gambetta followed closely.  In the street he turned to her and said in pleading tones: 

“Why did you destroy my letter?  You knew I loved you, and yet all these years you have kept away from me in silence.”

Then the girl—­for she was little more than a girl—­hesitated for a moment.  As he looked upon her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears.  At last she spoke with emotion: