n my room reading this letter, and I returned to
the saloon to weep bitterly. I could not bear to see him displeased with
me; I knew he would accuse me of being trifling and capricious--the idea
of having offended him pierced my heart with anguish. I know not if the
letter justified me in his eyes, whether he thought it honest and
dignified, but as soon as he had finished reading it he called me:
"Irene," he said, and I trembled with sweet emotion on hearing him, for
the first time, utter my real name; I returned to the next room, he took
my hand and continued: "Pardon me for believing, for a moment, that you
were capricious and trifling, and I forgive you for having made me act
an odious part towards one of my friends."

Then he told me in a tender voice that he understood my conduct, and
that it was right; that when one is not sure of loving her intended, or
of being loved by him, she has a right to test him, and that it was only
honest and just. Then he smilingly asked me if I did not wish to try
him, and leave him a month or two to see if I was beloved by him.

"Oh! no," I cried, "I believe in you. I do not wish to leave you. Oh!
how can true lovers live apart from each other? How can they be
separated for a single day?"

I recalled what you told me when I abandoned M. de Monbert, and
acknowledged that you were right when you said: "Genuine love is
confiding, it shuns doubt because it cannot endure it."

This sad impression that he felt upon learning that Louise Guerin was
Irene de Chateaudun, was the only cloud that passed over our happiness.
Soon joy returned to us lively and pure--and we spoke of you tenderly;
he was the poor wounded man that gave you so much uneasiness; he was the
model husband you had chosen for me, and whom I refused with such proud
scorn!

Ah! my good Valentine, how I thank you for having nursed him as a
sister; how noble and charming you were to him; I would like to reward
you by having you here to witness our happiness. And you must thank the
esteemed M. de Braimes for me, and my beautiful Irene, who taught him to
love my name, and brought him a bouquet every morning; and your handsome
Henri, the golden-haired angel, who brought him his little doves in your
work-basket to take care of, while he studied his lessons. Embrace for
me these dear children he caressed, who cheered his hours of suffering,
whom I so love for his sake and yours.

Will you not let me show my appreciation of my l