The moon, washed of her silver radiance lily-white,
Hung mourning over the gloomy plain, for thou hast robbed
The heavens of all that made them bright.

The snowy sparkle of the moon is on thy lovely brow,
Heaven's azure centres in thine eyes,
Thy lashes fall like starry rays.

What more gracious way of saying to a young girl that she fills your
life? Tell me what you think of this love, which expends itself in
lavishing the treasures alike of the earth and of the soul. Only within
the last ten days have I grasped the meaning of that Spanish gallantry,
so famous in old days.

Ah me! dear, what is going on now at La Crampade? How often do I take
a stroll there, inspecting the growth of our crops! Have you no news
to give of our mulberry trees, our last winter's plantations? Does
everything prosper as you wish? And while the buds are opening on our
shrubs--I will not venture to speak of the bedding-out plants--have they
also blossomed in the bosom of the wife? Does Louis continue his policy
of madrigals? Do you enter into each other's thoughts? I wonder whether
your little runlet of wedding peace is better than the raging torrent of
my love! Has my sweet lady professor taken offence? I cannot believe
it; and if it were so, I should send Felipe off at once, post-haste, to
fling himself at her knees and bring back to me my pardon or her head.
Sweet love, my life here is a splendid success, and I want to know how
it fares with life in Provence. We have just increased our family by the
addition of a Spaniard with the complexion of a Havana cigar, and your
congratulations still tarry.

Seriously, my sweet Renee, I am anxious. I am afraid lest you should be
eating your heart out in silence, for fear of casting a gloom over my
sunshine. Write to me at once, naughty child! and tell me your life in
its every minutest detail; tell me whether you still hold back, whether
your "independence" still stands erect, or has fallen on its knees,
or is sitting down comfortably, which would indeed be serious. Can you
suppose that the incidents of your married life are without interest for
me? I muse at times over all that you have said to me. Often when, at
the Opera, I seem absorbed in watching the pirouetting dancers, I am
saying to myself, "It is half-past nine, perhaps she is in bed. What is
she about? Is she happy? Is she alone with her independence? or has her
independence gone the way of other dead and castoff indepen