rguments of the court of love.

Has he any idea that, in affairs of love, a woman's most trifling
actions are but the issue of long brooding and inner conflicts, of
victories won only to be lost! What are his thoughts at this moment? How
can I give him my orders to write every evening the particulars of the
day just gone? He is my slave whom I ought to keep busy. I shall deluge
him with work!

Sunday Morning.

Only towards morning did I sleep a little. It is midday now. I have just
got Griffith to write the following letter:

"_To the Baron de Macumer_.

"Mademoiselle de Chaulieu begs me, Monsieur le Baron, to ask you
to return to her the copy of a letter written to her by a friend,
which is in her own handwriting, and which you carried away.--
Believe me, etc.,

"GRIFFITH."

My dear, Griffith has gone out; she has gone to the Rue Hillerin-Bertin;
she had handed in this little love-letter for my slave, who returned to
me in an envelope my sweet portrait, stained with tears. He has obeyed.
Oh! my sweet, it must have been dear to him! Another man would have
refused to send it in a letter full of flattery; but the Saracen has
fulfilled his promises. He has obeyed. It moves me to tears.

XVII. THE SAME TO THE SAME April 2nd.

Yesterday the weather was splendid. I dressed myself like a girl who
wants to look her best in her sweetheart's eyes. My father, yielding
to my entreaties, has given me the prettiest turnout in Paris--two
dapple-gray horses and a barouche, which is a masterpiece of elegance.
I was making a first trial of this, and peeped out like a flower from
under my sunshade lined with white silk.

As I drove up the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, I saw my Abencerrage
approaching on an extraordinarily beautiful horse. Almost every man
nowadays is a finished jockey, and they all stopped to admire and
inspect it. He bowed to me, and on receiving a friendly sign of
encouragement, slackened his horse's pace so that I was able to say to
him:

"You are not vexed with me for asking for my letter; it was no use to
you." Then in a lower voice, "You have already transcended the ideal.
... Your horse makes you an object of general interest," I went on
aloud.

"My steward in Sardinia sent it to me. He is very proud of it; for this
horse, which is of Arab blood, was born in my stables."

This morning, my dear, Henarez was on an English sorrel, also very fine,
but not such as to attract attention