to yourself a pretty country-house,
lightly set on a hill-top, and pensively overlooking the Creuse flowing
at its feet under an arbor of alder-bushes and flowering ash. Such as it
is, imbedded in woods which shelter it from the northern blasts and
protect it from the heats of the summer solstice; there--if the hope
that inspires me is not an illusion of my bewildered brain; if the light
that dazzles me is not a chance spark from chimerical fires, there,
among the scenes where I first saw the light, I would hide my happiness.
You see, madame, that my hand trembles as I write. One evening you and I
were walking together, under the trees in your garden; your children
played about us like young kids upon the green sward. As we walked we
talked, and insensibly began to speak of that vague need of loving which
torments our youth. You said that love was a grave undertaking, and that
often our whole life depended upon our first choice. I spoke of my
aspirations towards those unknown delights, which haunted me with their
seductive visions as Columbus was haunted by visions of a new world.
Gravely and pensively you listened to me, and when I began to trace the
image of the oft-dreamed-of woman, so vainly sought for in the
ungrateful domain of reality, I remember that you smiled as you said:
"Do not despair, she exists; you will meet her some day." Were you
speaking earnestly then? Is it she? Keep still, do not even breathe, she
might fly away.

After a few days spent in revisiting the scenes of my childhood, and
breathing afresh the sweet perfumes still hovering around infancy's
cradle, I left for Paris, where I scarcely rested The manner in which I
employed the few hours passed in that hot city would doubtless surprise
you, madame. My carriage rolled rapidly through the wealthy portion of
the city, and following my directions was soon lost in the gloomy
solitude of the Marais.

I alighted in the wilderness of a deserted street before a melancholy
and dejected-looking house, and as I raised the heavy latch of the
massive door, my heart beat as if I were about to meet, after a long
absence, an aged mother who wept for my return, or a much-loved sister.
I took a key from its nail in the porter's lodge and began to climb the
stair, which, viewed from below, looked more picturesque than inviting,
particularly when one proposed to ascend to the very top. Fortunately, I
am a mountaineer; I bounded up that wide ladder with as light a