letter I had seen in Rosine's
hand--the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop's-eye
of vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on the
retina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my
hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom
from my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interfering
habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.

I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: I
held in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, at
least, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial,
satisfying. And here was the direction, "Miss Lucy Snowe," in a clean,
clear, equal, decided hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftly
dropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress of
initials, "J. G. B." I experienced a happy feeling--a glad emotion
which went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins. For
once a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy:
not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy
chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot
live; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago--which,
indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and
preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely
loathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildly
praying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew and
essence--an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither
sweet hail nor small coriander-seed--neither slight wafer, nor luscious
honey, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter,
nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh,
healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch
demanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of his
last breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who had
vouchsafed it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, "Thank you, thank
you, Monsieur!"

Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and
strode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though
he had good points.

Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at once
and with haste, as if Esau's shaft flew every day?

I knew better. The cover with its address--the seal, with its th