m for months at a time.

At a few yards from the chateaux a group of pretty children chasing a
poor donkey around a little island attracted my attention.

"That island formerly belonged to the Richeport estate," said Mad. de
Meilhan; "so did those large meadows you see down below; the height of
my ambition is to buy them back, but to do this Edgar must marry an
heiress."

This word troubled me, and Mad. de Meilhan seemed annoyed. She evidently
thought: "She is an honest woman, and wants to marry Edgar, I fear," I
took no notice of her sudden coldness of manner, but thought to myself:
How delightful it would be to carry out these ambitious plans, and
gratify every wish of this woman's heart! I have but to utter one word,
and not only would she have this island and these meadows, but she would
possess all this beautiful forest. Oh! how sweet would it be to feel
that you are a small Providence on earth, able to penetrate and
instantly gratify the secret wishes of people you like! Valentine, I
begin to distrust myself; a temptation like this is too dangerous for a
nature like mine; I feel like saying to this noble, impoverished lady:
here, take these meadows, woods and islands that you so tenderly sigh
for--I could also say to this despairing young poet: here, take this
woman that you so madly love, marry her and be happy ... without
remembering that this woman is myself; without stopping to ask if this
happiness I promise him will add to my own.

Generosity is to me dangerously attractive! How I would love to make the
fortune of a noble poet! I am jealous of these foreigners who have
lately given us such lessons in generosity. I would be so happy in
bestowing a brilliant future upon one who chose and loved me in my
obscurity, but to do this love is necessary, and my heart is
broken--dead! I have no love to give.

Then again, M. de Meilhan has so much originality of character, and I
admit only originality of mind. He puts his horse in his chamber, which
is an original idea, to be sure; but I think horses had better be kept
in the stable, where they would certainly be more comfortable. And these
dreadful poets are such positive beings! Poets are not poetical, my dear
... Edgar has become romantic since he has been in love with me, but I
think it is an hypocrisy, and I mistrust his love.

Edgar is undeniably a talented, superior man, and captivating, as the
beautiful Marquise de R. has proved; but I fail to recognise in