XXXIII.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Porte Restante (Rouen).

PARIS, Aug. 11th 18--.

Here I am in Paris, gloomy, with nothing to do, not knowing how to fill
up the void in my life, discontented with myself, ridiculous in my own
eyes, alike in my love and in my despair. I have never felt so sad, so
wretched, so cast-down. My days and nights are passed in endless
self-accusation: one by one I revise every word and action relating to
Louise Guerin. I compose superb sentences which I had forgotten to
pronounce, the effect of which would have been irresistible. I tell
myself: "On such a day, you were guilty of a stupid timidity, which
would have made even a college-boy laugh." It was the moment for daring.
Louise, unseen, threw you a look which you were too stupid to
understand. The evening that Madame Taverneau was at Rouen, you allowed
yourself to be intimidated like a fool, by a few grand airs, an
affectation of virtue over which the least persistence would have
triumphed. Your delicacy ruined you. A little roughness doesn't hurt
sometimes, especially with prudes. You have not profited by a single one
of your advantages; you let every opportunity pass. In short, I am like
a general who has lost a battle, and who, having retired to his tent, in
the midst of a field strewn with the dead and the dying marks out, too
late, a strategic plan which would have infallibly gained him the
victory!

What a pitiless monster an unsatiated desire is, tearing your heart with
its sharp claws and piercing beak for want of other prey! The punishment
of Prometheus pales beside it, for the arrows of Hercules cannot reach
this unseen vulture! This is my first unsuccessful love; the first
falcon that has returned to me without bringing the dove in his talons;
I am devoured by an inexpressible rage; I pace my room like a wild
beast, uttering inarticulate cries; I do not know whether I love or
hate Louise the most, but I should take infinite delight in strangling
her with her blonde tresses and trampling her, affrighted and suppliant,
under my feet.

My good Roger, I weary you with my lamentations; but whom can we weary,
if not our friends? When will you return to Paris? Soon, I hope, since
you have ceased writing to me.

I have gone back to the lady with the turban, passing nearly every
evening in the catafalque, which she calls her drawing-room. This
lugubrious habitation suits my melancholy. She finds me more