d true.
And so, my pretty one, as you will henceforth be an authority only on
conjugal love, it seems to me my duty--in the interest, of course, of
our common life--to remain unmarried, and have a grand passion, so that
we may enlarge our experience.

Tell me every detail of what happens to you, especially in the first
few days, with that strange animal called a husband. I promise to do the
same for you if ever I am loved.

Farewell, poor martyred darling.

XI. MME. DE L'ESTORADE TO MLLE. DE CHAULIEU La Crampade.

Your Spaniard and you make me shudder, my darling. I write this line to
beg of you to dismiss him. All that you say of him corresponds with the
character of those dangerous adventurers who, having nothing to lose,
will take any risk. This man cannot be your husband, and must not be
your lover. I will write to you more fully about the inner history of my
married life when my heart is free from the anxiety your last letter has
roused in it.

XII. MLLE. DE CHAULIEU TO MME. DE L'ESTORADE February.

At nine o'clock this morning, sweetheart, my father was announced in my
rooms. I was up and dressed. I found him solemnly seated beside the fire
in the drawing-room, looking more thoughtful than usual. He pointed to
the armchair opposite to him. Divining his meaning, I sank into it
with a gravity, which so well aped his, that he could not refrain from
smiling, though the smile was dashed with melancholy.

"You are quite a match for your grandmother in quick-wittedness," he
said.

"Come, father, don't play the courtier here," I replied; "you want
something from me."

He rose, visibly agitated, and talked to me for half an hour. This
conversation, dear, really ought to be preserved. As soon as he had
gone, I sat down to my table and tried to recall his words. This is the
first time that I have seen my father revealing his inner thoughts.

He began by flattering me, and he did not do it badly. I was bound to be
grateful to him for having understood and appreciated me.

"Armande," he said, "I was quite mistaken in you, and you have agreeably
surprised me. When you arrived from the convent, I took you for an
average young girl, ignorant and not particularly intelligent, easily
to be bought off with gewgaws and ornaments, and with little turn for
reflection."

"You are complimentary to young girls, father."

"Oh! there is no such thing as youth nowadays," he said, with the air
of a diplomat. "Your