ot even my
mother, has smiled on me. The beautiful young girl who was
designed for me rejected my heart and gave hers to my brother.
Again, in politics all my efforts have been defeated. In the eyes
of my king I have read only thirst for vengeance; from childhood
he has been my enemy, and the vote of the Cortes which placed me
in power was regarded by him as a personal insult.

"Less than this might breed despondency in the stoutest heart.
Besides, I have no illusion; I know the gracelessness of my
person, and am well aware how difficult it is to do justice to the
heart within so rugged a shell. To be loved had ceased to be more
than a dream to me when I met you. Thus when I bound myself to
your service I knew that devotion alone could excuse my passion.

"But, as I look upon this portrait and listen to your smile that
whispers of rapture, the rays of a hope which I had sternly
banished pierced the gloom, like the light of dawn, again to be
obscured by rising mists of doubt and fear of your displeasure, if
the morning should break to day. No, it is impossible you should
love me yet--I feel it; but in time, as you make proof of the
strength, the constancy, and depth of my affection, you may yield
me some foothold in your heart. If my daring offends you, tell me
so without anger, and I will return to my former part. But if you
consent to try and love me, be merciful and break it gently to one
who has placed the happiness of his life in the single thought of
serving you."

My dear, as I read these last words, he seemed to rise before me,
pale as the night when the camellias told their story and he knew his
offering was accepted. These words, in their humility, were clearly
something quite different from the usual flowery rhetoric of lovers, and
a wave of feeling broke over me; it was the breath of happiness.

The weather has been atrocious; impossible to go to the Bois without
exciting all sorts of suspicions. Even my mother, who often goes out,
regardless of rain, remains at home, and alone.

Wednesday evening.

I have just seen _him_ at the Opera, my dear; he is another man. He came
to our box, introduced by the Sardinian ambassador.

Having read in my eyes that this audacity was taken in good part, he
seemed awkwardly conscious of his limbs, and addressed the Marquise
d'Espard as "mademoiselle." A light far brighter than the glare of the
chandeliers flashed from h