repressing her most ardent impulses within the narrow sphere of conventions.  If I had a daughter able to become a Madame de Stael I should wish her dead at fifteen.  Can you imagine a daughter of yours flaunting on the stage of fame, exhibiting herself to win the plaudits of a crowd, and not suffer anguish at the thought?  No matter to what heights a woman can rise by the inward poetry of her soul, she must sacrifice the outer signs of superiority on the altar of her home.  Her impulse, her genius, her aspirations toward Good, the whole poem of a young girl’s being, should belong to the man she accepts and the children whom she brings into the world.  I think I perceive in you a secret desire to widen the narrow circle of the life to which all women are condemned, and to put love and passion into marriage.  Ah! it is a lovely dream! it is not impossible; it is difficult, but if realized, may it not be to the despair of souls—­forgive me the hackneyed word—­“incompris”?

If you seek a platonic friendship it will be to your sorrow in after years.  If your letter was a jest, discontinue it.  Perhaps this little romance is to end here—­is it?  It has not been without fruit.  My sense of duty is aroused, and you, on your side, will have learned something of Society.  Turn your thoughts to real life; throw the enthusiasms you have culled from literature into the virtues of your sex.

Adieu, mademoiselle.  Do me the honor to grant me your esteem.  Having seen you, or one whom I believe to be you, I have known that your letter was simply natural; a flower so lovely turns to the sun—­of poetry.  Yes, love poetry as you love flowers, music, the grandeur of the sea, the beauties of nature; love them as an adornment of the soul, but remember what I have had the honor of telling you as to the nature of poets.  Be cautious not to marry, as you say, a dunce, but seek the partner whom God has made for you.  There are souls, believe me, who are fit to appreciate you, and to make you happy.  If I were rich, if you were poor, I would lay my heart and my fortunes at your feet; for I believe your soul to be full of riches and of loyalty; to you I could confide my life and my honor in absolute security.

  Once more, adieu, adieu, fairest daughter of Eve the fair.

The reading of this letter, swallowed like a drop of water in the desert, lifted the mountain which weighed heavily on Modeste’s heart:  then she saw the mistake she had made in arranging her plan, and repaired it by giving Francoise some envelopes directed to herself, in which the maid could put the letters which came from Paris and drop them again into the box.  Modeste resolved to receive the postman herself on the steps of the Chalet at the hour when he made his delivery.

As to the feelings that this reply, in which the noble heart of poor La Briere beat beneath the brilliant phantom of Canalis, excited in Modeste, they were as multifarious and confused as the waves which rushed to die along the shore while with her eyes fixed on the wide ocean she gave herself up to the joy of having (if we dare say so) harpooned an angelic soul in the Parisian Gulf, of having divined that hearts of price might still be found in harmony with genius, and, above all, for having followed the magic voice of intuition.