paleness, all the splendor of her toilet, did but the more distinctly bring out the immobility of her countenance.  Never had Croisilles seen her so beautiful.  Having found means, between the acts, to escape from the crush, he hurried off to look at her from the passage leading to her box, and, strange to say, scarcely had he reached it, when Mademoiselle Godeau, who had not stirred for the last hour, turned round.  She started slightly as she noticed him and only cast a glance at him; then she resumed her former attitude.  Whether that glance expressed surprise, anxiety, pleasure or love; whether it meant “What, not dead!” or “God be praised!  There you are, living!”—­I do not pretend to explain.  Be that as it may; at that glance, Croisilles inwardly swore to himself to die or gain her love.

IV

Of all the obstacles which hinder the smooth course of love, the greatest is, without doubt, what is called false shame, which is indeed a very potent obstacle.

Croisilles was not troubled with this unhappy failing, which both pride and timidity combine to produce; he was not one of those who, for whole months, hover round the woman they love, like a cat round a caged bird.  As soon as he had given up the idea of drowning himself, he thought only of letting his dear Julie know that he lived solely for her.  But how could he tell her so?  Should he present himself a second time at the mansion of the fermier-general, it was but too certain that M. Godeau would have him ejected.

Julie, when she happened to take a walk, never went without her maid; it was therefore useless to undertake to follow her.  To pass the nights under the windows of one’s beloved is a folly dear to lovers, but, in the present case, it would certainly prove vain.  I said before that Croisilles was very religious; it therefore never entered his mind to seek to meet his lady-love at church.  As the best way, though the most dangerous, is to write to people when one cannot speak to them in person, he decided on the very next day to write to the young lady.

His letter possessed, naturally, neither order nor reason.  It read somewhat as follows: 

“Mademoiselle,—­Tell me exactly, I beg of you, what fortune one must possess to be able to pretend to your hand.  I am asking you a strange question; but I love you so desperately, that it is impossible for me not to ask it, and you are the only person in the world to whom I can address it.  It seemed to me, last evening, that you looked at me at the play.  I had wished to die; would to God I were indeed dead, if I am mistaken, and if that look was not meant for me.  Tell me if Fate can be so cruel as to let a man deceive himself in a manner at once so sad and so sweet.  I believe that you commanded me to live.  You are rich, beautiful.  I know it.  Your father is arrogant and miserly, and you have a right to be proud; but I love you,