is at hand, that he will follow and look at me. Then I meet only
mountebanks, vendors of gingerbread, jugglers, passers-by hurrying to
their business, or lovers who try to escape notice. These I am tempted
to stop, asking them, "You who are happy, tell me what is love."

But the impulse is repressed, and I return to my carriage, swearing
to die an old maid. Love is undoubtedly an incarnation, and how many
conditions are needful before it can take place! We are not certain of
never quarreling with ourselves, how much less so when there are two?
This is a problem which God alone can solve.

I begin to think that I shall return to the convent. If I remain in
society, I shall do things which will look like follies, for I cannot
possibly reconcile myself to what I see. I am perpetually wounded either
in my sense of delicacy, my inner principles, or my secret thoughts.

Ah! my mother is the happiest of women, adored as she is by Canalis,
her great little man. My love, do you know I am seized sometimes with a
horrible craving to know what goes on between my mother and that young
man? Griffith tells me she has gone through all these moods; she has
longed to fly at women, whose happiness was written in their face; she
has blackened their character, torn them to pieces. According to her,
virtue consists in burying all these savage instincts in one's innermost
heart. But what then of the heart? It becomes the sink of all that is
worst in us.

It is very humiliating that no adorer has yet turned up for me. I am
a marriageable girl, but I have brothers, a family, relations, who are
sensitive on the point of honor. Ah! if that is what keeps men back,
they are poltroons.

The part of Chimene in the _Cid_ and that of the Cid delight me. What a
marvelous play! Well, good-bye.

VIII. THE SAME TO THE SAME January.

Our master is a poor refugee, forced to keep in hiding on account of
the part he played in the revolution which the Duc d'Angouleme has
just quelled--a triumph to which we owe some splendid fetes. Though a
Liberal, and doubtless a man of the people, he has awakened my interest:
I fancy that he must have been condemned to death. I make him talk for
the purpose of getting at his secret; but he is of a truly Castilian
taciturnity, proud as though he were Gonsalvo di Cordova, and
nevertheless angelic in his patience and gentleness. His pride is not
irritable like Miss Griffith's, it belongs to his inner nature; he
for