blows.  But why dwell upon Edgar and his anger and hatred, of Roger and his fury?  Fate needs not these terrible instruments to destroy our happiness; the slightest accident, the most trifling imprudence can serve its cruelty; every thing will assist it in taking vengeance upon a man revelling in too much love, too much love.  The cold north wind blowing at night upon his heated brow may strike him with the chill of death; the bridge may perfidiously break beneath his feet and cast him in the surging torrent below; a lofty rock, shivered by the winter frost, may fall upon him and crush him to atoms; his favorite horse may be frightened at a shadow and hurl him over the threatening precipice ... that child playing in front of my window might carelessly strike him on the temple with one of those pebbles and kill him....

Oh!  Valentine, I am not laboring under an illusion.  I see danger; the world revolts against pure, unalloyed happiness; society pursues it as an offence; nature curses it because of its perfection; to her every perfect thing seems a monstrosity not to be borne—­directly she suspects its existence, she gives the alarm and the elements unite in conspiring against this happiness; the thunder-bolt is warned and holds itself in readiness to burst over the radiant brow.  With human beings all the evil passions are simultaneously aroused:  secret notice, unknown voices warn the envious people of every nation that there is somewhere a great joy to be disturbed; that in some corner of the earth two beings exist who sought and found each other—­two hearts that love with ideal equality and intoxicating harmony....  Chance itself, that careless railer, is overbearing and jealous towards them; it is angry with these two beings who voluntarily sought and conscientiously chose each other without waiting for it to confer happiness upon them—­it discovers their names, that never knows the name of any one, and pursues them with its animosity; it recovers its sight in order to recognise and strike them.  I feel that we are too happy!  Death stares us in the face!  My soul shudders with fear!  On earth we are not allowed to taste of supreme delight—­pure, unalloyed happiness—­to feel at once that ecstasy of soul and delirium of passion—­that pride of love and loftiness of a pure conscience ... burning joys are only permitted to culpable love.  When two unfortunate beings, bound by detested ties, meet and mutually recognise the ideals of their dreams, they are allowed to love each other because they have met too late, because this immense joy, this finding one’s ideal, is poisoned by remorse and shame.  Their criminal happiness can remain undisturbed because it is criminal; it has the conditions of life, frailty and misery; it bears the impress of sin, therefore it belongs to a common humanity....  But find ideal bliss in a legitimate union, find it in time to welcome it without shame and cherish it without remorse; be happy as a lover and honored as a wife; to experience