of a friend.  We ourselves are helpless; looking at others we are lynx-eyed, looking at ourselves we are almost blind.  It is the optical nerve of the passions.  It is mortifying to thus sacrifice the highest prerogatives of man at the feet of a woman, to feel compelled to yield to her caprices and submit to the inexorable exigencies of love.  The artificial life I am leading is odious to me.  Patience is a virtue that died with Job, and I cannot perform the miracle of resuscitating it.

Take my advice—­be prudent—­be wise—­be generous—­leave Richeport and come to me; we can assist and console each other; you can render me a great service, I will explain how when we meet—­I will remain here for a few days; do not hesitate to come at once—­Between a friend who fears you and a friend who loves you and claims you—­can you hesitate?

ROGER DE MONBERT.

XXIII.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to Mme. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Grenoble (Isere).

Pont de L’Arche, July 15th 18—.

Come to my help, my dear Valentine—­I am miserable.  Each joyless morning finds me more wretched than I was the previous night.  Oh! what a burden is life to those who are fated to live only for life itself!  No sunshine gilds my horizon with the promises of hope—­I expect nothing but sorrow.  Who can I trust now that my own heart has misled me?  When error arose from the duplicity of others I could support the disenchantment—­the deceptive love of Roger was not a bitter surprise, my instinct had already divined it; I comprehended a want of congeniality between us, and felt that a rapture would anticipate an alliance:  and while thinking I loved him, I yet said to myself:  This is not love.

But now I am my own deceiver—­and I awaken to lament the self-confidence and assurance that were the source of my strength and courage.  With flattering ecstasy I cried:  It is he!...  Alas! he replied not:  It is she!  And now he is gone—­he has left me!  Dreadful awakening from so beautiful a dream!

Valentine, burn quickly the letter telling you of my ingenuous hopes, my confident happiness—­yes, burn the foolish letter, so there will remain no witness of my unrequited love!  What! that deep emotion agitating my whole being, whose language was the tears of joy that dimmed my eyes, and the counted beatings of my throbbing heart—­that master-passion, at whose behest I trembled while blushes mantled and fled from my cheek, betraying me to him and him to me; the love whose fire I could not hide—­the beautiful future I foresaw—­that world of bliss in which I began to live—­this pure love that gave an impetus to life—­this devotion that I felt was reciprocated....  All, all was but a creation of my fancy.... and all has vanished ... here I am alone with nothing to strengthen me but a memory ... the memory of a lost illusion....  Have I a right to complain?  It is the irrevocable law—­after fiction, reality—­after a meteor, darkness—­after the mirage, a desert!