a Sardinian subject, and he possesses a magnificent estate in the island
with full feudal rights. He has a palace at Sassari. If Ferdinand VII.
were to die, Macumer would probably go in for diplomacy, and the Court
of Turin would make him ambassador. Though young, he is--"

"Ah! he is young?"

"Certainly, mademoiselle... though young, he is one of the most
distinguished men in Spain."

I scanned the house meanwhile through my opera-glass, and seemed to
lend an inattentive ear to the secretary; but, between ourselves, I was
wretched at having burnt his letter. In what terms would a man like that
express his love? For he does love me. To be loved, adored in secret;
to know that in this house, where all the great men of Paris were
collected, there was one entirely devoted to me, unknown to everybody!
Ah! Renee, now I understand the life of Paris, its balls, and its
gaieties. It all flashed on me in the true light. When we love, we
must have society, were it only to sacrifice it to our love. I felt
a different creature--and such a happy one! My vanity, pride,
self-love,--all were flattered. Heaven knows what glances I cast upon
the audience!

"Little rogue!" the Duchess whispered in my ear with a smile.

Yes, Renee, my wily mother had deciphered the hidden joy in my bearing,
and I could only haul down my flag before such feminine strategy. Those
two words taught me more of worldly wisdom than I have been able to pick
up in a year--for we are in March now. Alas! no more Italian opera in
another month. How will life be possible without that heavenly music,
when one's heart is full of love?

When I got home, my dear, with determination worthy of a Chaulieu, I
opened my window to watch a shower of rain. Oh! if men knew the magic
spell that a heroic action throws over us, they would indeed rise to
greatness! a poltroon would turn hero! What I had learned about my
Spaniard drove me into a very fever. I felt certain that he was there,
ready to aim another letter at me.

I was right, and this time I burnt nothing. Here, then, is the first
love-letter I have received, madame logician: each to her kind:--

"Louise, it is not for your peerless beauty I love you, nor for
your gifted mind, your noble feeling, the wondrous charm of all
you say and do, nor yet for your pride, your queenly scorn of
baser mortals--a pride blent in you with charity, for what angel
could be more tender?--Louise, I love you because, for the