an enemy to every well-beaten track.  His mind is always at war with his heart; his sincerest inspirations have the scoffing accompaniment of Don Juan’s romance.  No, he cannot make the happiness of this Louise so long sought for, so long hoped for, found, alas! to be irremediably lost.  Louise deceives herself if she thinks otherwise.  But she does not think so.  What is so agonizing in the necessity that separates us, is the conviction that such a separation blasts two destinies, silently united.  I do not repine at the loss of my own happiness alone, but above all, over that of this noble creature.  I am convinced that when we met, we recognised each other; she mentally exclaimed, “It is he!” when I told myself, “It is she!” When I went to bid her farewell, a long, eternal farewell, I found her pale, sad; the tears rolled, unchecked, down her cheeks.  She loves me, I know it; I feel it; and still I must depart! she wept and I was forced to be silent!  One single word would have opened Paradise to us, and that word I could not utter!  Farewell, sweet dream, vanished for ever!  And thou, stern and stupid honor, I curse thee while I serve thee, and execrate while I sacrifice all to thee.  Ah! do not think that I am resigned; do not believe that pride can ever fill up the abyss into which I have voluntarily cast myself; do not hope that some day I shall find self-satisfaction as a recompense for my abnegation.  There are moments when I hate myself and rebel against my own imbecility.  Why depart?  What is Edgar to me? still less, what interest have I in his love episodes?  I love; I feel myself loved in return; what have I to do with anything else?

Contempt for my cowardly virtue is the only price that I have received for my sacrifice, and I twit myself with this thought of Pascal:  “Man is neither an angel nor a brute, and the misfortune is that when he wishes to make himself an angel, he becomes a brute!” Be silent, my heart!  At least it shall never be said that the descendant of a race of cavaliers entered his friend’s house to rob him of his happiness.

I am sad, madame.  The bright ray seen for a moment, has but made the darkness into which I have fallen, more black and sombre; I am unutterably sad!  What is to become of me?  Where shall I drag out my weary days?  I do not know.  Everything wearies and bores me, or rather all things are indifferent to me.  I think I will travel.  Wherever I go, your image will accompany me, consoling me, if I can be consoled.  At first I thought that I would carry you my heart to comfort; but my unhappiness is dear to me, and I do not wish to be cured of it.

I press M. de Braimes’s hand, and clasp your charming children warmly to my heart.

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS.

XXVI.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN to the PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste Restante (Rouen).

Richeport, July 23d 18—.

I am mad with rage, wild with grief!  That Louise!  I do not know what keeps me from setting fire to the house that conceals her!  I must go away; I shall commit some insane act, some crime, if I remain!  I have written her letter after letter; I have tried in every way to see her; all my efforts unavailing!  It is like beating your head against a wall!  Coquette and prude!—­appalling combination, too common a monstrosity, alas!