to see him in his true character, &c., precisely what I saw to-night.  Yes, Valentine, there he was as tipsy as a coachman—­with those little hair-brained de S.’s, the eldest simply tipsy as a lord, the young one, George, was drunk, very drunk.  This is not all, the fascinating Prince was escort to two fashionable beauties, two miserable creatures of distressing notoriety, two of those shameless women whom we cannot fail to recognise on account of their scandalous behavior in public; sort of market-women disguised as fashion-plates—­half apple-venders, half coquettes, who tap men on the cheek with their scented gloves and intersperse their conversation with dreadful oaths from behind their bouquets and Pompadour fans! ... these creatures talked in shrill tones, laughed out loud enough to be heard by every one around—­joined in the chorus of the Choir of Antigone with the old men of Thebes!...  People in the gallery said:  “they must have dined late,” that was a charitable construction to put upon their shameful conduct—­I thought to myself, this is their usual behavior—­they are always thus.

I must tell you, so you can better appreciate my angry mortification, that just as we were stepping into the carriage the servant handed me the letters that I had sent him to bring from the Hotel de Langeac.  Among the number was one from M. de Monbert, written several days after I had left Paris; this letter is worthy of being sent to Grenoble; I enclose it.  While reading it, my dear Valentine, don’t forget that I read it at the theatre, and my reading was constantly interrupted by the vulgar conversation and noisy laughter of M. de Monbert and his choice companions, and that each high-flown sentence of this hypocritical note had at the same time a literal and free translation in the scandalous remarks, bursts of laughter, and stupid puns of the despicable man who had written it.

I confess that this flow of wit interfered with my perusal of these touching reproaches; the brilliant improvisations of the orator prevented me from becoming too much affected by the elegiacs of the writer.

Here is the note that I was trying to decipher through my tears when Monsieur de Monbert swaggered into the theatre.

“Is this a test of love—­a woman’s vengeance or an idle caprice, Mademoiselle?  My mind is not calm enough to solve the enigma.  Be merciful and drive me not to madness!  To-morrow may be too late—­then your words of reason might be responded to by the jargon of insanity!  Beware! and cast aside your cloak of mystery before the sun once more goes down upon my frenzy.  All is desolation and darkness within and without—­nothing appears bright to my eyes, and my soul is wrapped in gloom.  In your absence I cease to live, but it seems as if my deep love gives me still enough strength to hold a wandering pen that my mind no longer guides.  With my love I gave you my soul and mind—­what remains to me would excite your pity.  I implore you to restore me to life.