The scrawl was taken to her by a discreet official, and this time she received the letter, pressed it to her heart, and then slipped it into the bodice of her gown.  But this time, as before, she left without making a reply.

It was an encouragement, yet it gave no opening to Gambetta—­for she returned to the National Assembly no more.  But now his heart was full of hope, for he was convinced with a very deep conviction that somewhere, soon, and in some way he would meet this woman, who had become to him one of the intense realities of his life.  He did not know her name.  They had never exchanged a word.  Yet he was sure that time would bring them close together.

His intuition was unerring.  What we call chance often seems to know what it is doing.  Within a year after the occurrence that has just been narrated an old friend of Gambetta’s met with an accident which confined him to his house.  The statesman strolled to his friend’s residence.  The accident was a trifling one, and the mistress of the house was holding a sort of informal reception, answering questions that were asked her by the numerous acquaintances who called.

As Gambetta was speaking, of a sudden he saw before him, at the extremity of the room, the lady of his dreams, the sphinx of his waking hours, the woman who four years earlier had torn up the note which he addressed to her, but who more recently had kept his written words.  Both of them were deeply agitated, yet both of them carried off the situation without betraying themselves to others, Gambetta approached, and they exchanged a few casual commonplaces.  But now, close together, eye and voice spoke of what was in their hearts.

Presently the lady took her leave.  Gambetta followed closely.  In the street he turned to her and said in pleading tones: 

“Why did you destroy my letter?  You knew I loved you, and yet all these years you have kept away from me in silence.”

Then the girl—­for she was little more than a girl—­hesitated for a moment.  As he looked upon her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears.  At last she spoke with emotion: 

“You cannot love me, for I am unworthy of you.  Do not urge me.  Do not make promises.  Let us say good-by.  At least I must first tell you of my story, for I am one of those women whom no one ever marries.”

Gambetta brushed aside her pleadings.  He begged that he might see her soon.  Little by little she consented; but she would not see him at her house.  She knew that his enemies were many and that everything he did would be used against him.  In the end she agreed to meet him in the park at Versailles, near the Petit Trianon, at eight o’clock in the morning.

When she had made this promise he left her.  Already a new inspiration had come to him, and he felt that with this woman by his side he could accomplish anything.

At the appointed hour, in the silence of the park and amid the sunshine of the beautiful morning, the two met once again.  Gambetta seized her hands with eagerness and cried out in an exultant tone: