ver. But, strange to say, although his presence was
intolerably annoying, I am conscious that he still exercises a sort
of magnetism over me. Without seeing him, I feel him near me; his eyes
weigh upon me, though I do not meet them. He is ugly, but his ugliness
has something energetic and powerfully marked, which makes one
remember him as a man of strong and energetic faculties. In fact, it
is impossible not to think about him; and now that he appears to have
relieved me of his presence, I an conscious of a void--that sort of void
the ear feels when a sharp and piercing noise which has long annoyed it
ceases. What I am going to add may seem to you great foolishness; but
are we always mistress of such mirages of the imagination?

I have often told you of my arguments with Louise de Chaulieu in
relation to the manner in which women ought to look at life. I used
to tell her that the passion with which she never ceased to pursue the
ideal was ill-regulated and fatal to happiness. To this she answered:
"You have never loved, my dearest; love has this rare phenomenon about
it: we may live all our lives without ever meeting the being to whom
nature has assigned the power of making us happy. But if the day of
splendor comes when that being unexpectedly awakes your heart from
sleep, what will you do then?" [See "Memoirs of Two Young Married
Women."]

The words of those about to die are often prophetic. What if this man
were to be the tardy serpent with whom Louise threatened me? That he
could ever be really dangerous to me; that he could make me fail in my
duty, that is certainly not what I fear; I am strong against all such
extremes. But I did not, like you, my dear Madame de Camps, marry a
man whom my heart had chosen. It was only by dint of patience,
determination, and reason that I was able to build up the solid and
serious attachment which binds me to Monsieur de l'Estorade. Ought I
not, therefore, to be doubly cautious lest anything distract me from
that sentiment, be it only the diversion of my thoughts in this annoying
manner, to another man?

I shall say to you, as, MONSIEUR, Louis XIV.'s brother, said to his
wife, to whom he was in the habit of showing what he had written and
asking her to decipher it: See into my heart and mind, dear friend,
disperse the mists, quiet the worries, and the flux and reflux of will
which this affair stirs up in me. My poor Louise was mistaken, was she
not? I am not a woman, am I, on wh