to a heroic resistance of more than
nine months, during which he has not been allowed even to kiss my hand,
and so also ends the season of our sweet, pure love-making. This is not
the mere surrender of a raw, ignorant, and curious girl, as it was eight
years ago; the gift is deliberate, and my lover awaits it with such
loyal patience that, if I pleased, I could postpone the marriage for
a year. There is no servility in this; love's slave he may be, but the
heart is not slavish. Never have I seen a man of nobler feeling, or
one whose tenderness was more rich in fancy, whose love bore more the
impress of his soul. Alas! my sweet one, the art of love is his by
heritage. A few words will tell his story.

My friend has no other name than Marie Gaston. He is the illegitimate
son of the beautiful Lady Brandon, whose fame must have reached you,
and who died broken-hearted, a victim to the vengeance of Lady Dudley--a
ghastly story of which the dear boy knows nothing. Marie Gaston was
placed by his brother Louis in a boarding-school at Tours, where he
remained till 1827. Louis, after settling his brother at school, sailed
a few days later for foreign parts "to seek his fortune," to use the
words of an old woman who had played the part of Providence to him.
This brother turned sailor used to write him, at long intervals, letters
quite fatherly in tone, and breathing a noble spirit; but a struggling
life never allowed him to return home. His last letter told Marie that
he had been appointed Captain in the navy of some American republic, and
exhorted him to hope for better days.

Alas! since then three years have passed, and my poor poet has never
heard again. So dearly did he love his brother, that he would have
started to look for him but for Daniel d'Arthez, the well-known author,
who took a generous interest in Marie Gaston, and prevented him carrying
out his mad impulse. Nor was this all; often would he give him a crust
and a corner, as the poet puts it in his graphic words.

For, in truth, the poor lad was in terrible straits; he was actually
innocent enough to believe--incredible as it seems--that genius was the
shortest road to fortune, and from 1828 to 1833 his one aim has been to
make a name for himself in letters. Naturally his life was a frightful
tissue of toil and hardships, alternating between hope and despair. The
good advice of d'Arthez could not prevail against the allurements of
ambition, and his debts went on