acle; if there
is room for the blade of a knife to pass, his little carriage will ride
through in triumph.

And Nais? Nais is so completely a second self that I can hardly realize
her as distinct from my own flesh and blood. What a darling she is, and
how I love to make a little lady of her, to dress her curly hair, tender
thoughts mingling the while with every touch! I must have her happy; I
shall only give her to the man who loves her and whom she loves.
But, Heavens! when I let her put on her little ornaments, or pass a
cherry-colored ribbon through her hair, or fasten the shoes on her tiny
feet, a sickening thought comes over me. How can one order the destiny
of a girl? Who can say that she will not love a scoundrel or some man
who is indifferent to her? Tears often spring to my eyes as I watch her.
This lovely creature, this flower, this rosebud which has blossomed in
one's heart, to be handed over to a man who will tear it from the stem
and leave it bare! Louise, it is you--you, who in two years have not
written three words to tell me of your welfare--it is you who have
recalled to my mind the terrible possibilities of marriage, so full of
anguish for a mother wrapped up, as I am, in her child. Farewell now,
for in truth you don't deserve my friendship, and I hardly know how to
write. Oh! answer me, dear Louise.

LII. MME. GASTON TO MME. DE L'ESTORADE The Chalet.

So, after a silence of two years, you are pricked by curiosity, and want
to know why I have not written. My dear Renee, there are no words, no
images, no language to express my happiness. That we have strength to
bear it sums up all I could say. It costs us no effort, for we are in
perfect sympathy. The whole two years have known no note of discord in
the harmony, no jarring word in the interchange of feeling, no shade of
difference in our lightest wish. Not one in this long succession of
days has failed to bear its own peculiar fruit; not a moment has passed
without being enriched by the play of fancy. So far are we from dreading
the canker of monotony in our life, that our only fear is lest it should
not be long enough to contain all the poetic creations of a love as rich
and varied in its development as Nature herself. Of disappointment not
a trace! We find more pleasure in being together than on the first day,
and each hour as it goes by discloses fresh reason for our love. Every
day as we take our evening stroll after dinner, we tell each ot