s preparing to manoeuvre the artillery of
the siege, every one rose precipitately, to escape the capture and
pillage of Lubeck. Edgar rushed into the park, the guests dispersed; and
while Madame de Meilhan, bearing with heroic resignation the
inconveniences attached to her dignity as mistress of the house, fought
by the general's side like Clorinde by the side of Argant, I found
myself alone, with the young widow, upon the terrace of the chateau. We
talked, and a powerful enchantment compelled me to surrender my soul
into her keeping. I amazed myself by confiding to her what I had never
told myself.

My most cherished and hidden feelings were drawn irresistibly forth from
the inmost recesses of my bosom. When I spoke, I seemed to translate her
thoughts; when she in turn replied, she paraphrased mine. In less than
an hour I learned to know her. She possessed, at the same time, an
experimental mind, which could descend to the root of things, and a
tender and inexperienced heart which life had never troubled.
Theoretically she was governed by a lofty and precocious reason ripened
by misfortune; practically, she was swayed by the dictates of an
innocent and untried soul. Until now, she has lived only in the activity
of her thoughts; the rest of her being sleeps, seeks or awaits. Who is
she? She is not a widow. Albert Guerin is not her name; she has never
been married. Where Madame de Meilhan hesitates, I doubt, I decide. How
does it happen that the mystery with which she is surrounded has to me
all the prestige and lustre of a glowing virtue? How is it that my heart
rejoices at it when my prudence should take alarm? Another mystery,
which I do not undertake to explain. All that I know is, that she is
poor, and that if I had a crown I should wish to ennoble it by placing
it upon that lovely brow.

Do not tell me that this is madness; that love is not born of a look or
a word, that it must germinate in the heart for a season before it can
bear fruit. Enthusiasts live fast. They reach the same end as reason,
and by like paths; only reason drags its weary length along, while
enthusiasm flies on eagle's wing. Besides, this love has long since
budded; it only sought a heart to twine itself around. Is it love? I
deceive myself perhaps. Whence this feeling that agitates me? this
intoxication that has taken possession of me? this radiance that dazzles
me? I saw her again, and the charm increased. How you would love her!
how my mot