ittle goddaughter by
rendering her independent of future accidents, enabling her without
imprudence to marry for love?

I am so happy in loving that I can imagine it to be the only source of
joy to others; yet this happiness is so great that I find myself asking
if my heart is equal to its blessings; if my poor reason, wearied by so
many trials, will have sufficient strength to support these violent
emotions; if happiness has not, like misery, a madness. I endeavor when
alone to calm my excited mind; I sit down and try to quietly think over
my past life with that inflexibility of judgment, that analyzing
pedantry, of which you have so often accused me.

You remember, Valentine, more than once you have told me you saw in me
two persons, a romantic young girl and a disenchanted old
philosopher.... Ah! well, to-day the romantic young girl has reached the
most thrilling chapter of her life; she feels her weak head whirl at the
prospect of such intoxicating bliss, and she appeals to the old
philosopher for assistance. She tells him how this bliss frightens her;
she begs him to reassure her about this beautiful future opening before
her, by proving to her that it is natural and logical; that it is the
result of her past life, and finally that however great it may be,
however extraordinary it may seem, it is possible, it is lasting,
because it is bought at the price of humiliation, of sorrow, of trials!

Yes, I confess it, these happy events appear to be so strange, so
impossible, that I try to explain them, to calmly analyze them and
believe in their reality.

I recall one by one all my impressions of the last four years, and exert
my mind to discover in the strangeness, in the fatality, in the
excessive injustice of my past misfortunes, a natural explanation for
extraordinary and incredible events of the present. The reverses
themselves were romantic and improbable, therefore the reparations and
consolations should in their turn be equally romantic. Is it an ordinary
thing for a young girl reared like myself in Parisian luxury, belonging
to an illustrious family, to be reduced to the sternest poverty, and
through family pride and dignity to conceal her name? Is not such
dignity, assailed by fate, destined sooner or later to vindicate itself?

You see that through myself I would have been restored to my rank. M. de
Meilhan wished to marry me without fortune or name.... Yesterday, M. de
Villiers knew not who I was; my unc