age with Mademoiselle de Chateaudun, should have stepped
in your shoes? This comes of deeds of prowess a la Don Quixote, and
rescues of old Englishwomen.

Hasten, my friend, by railroad, post-horses, in the stirrup, on
hippogriff's wing; what am I talking about? You will scarcely receive my
letter ere the marriage has taken place. But I will keep watch for you.
I will acquit myself of your revenge, and Mademoiselle Irene de
Chateaudun shall not become Madame Raymond de Villiers until I have
whispered that in her ear which will make her paler than her marriage
veil. As to Raymond, I am not astonished at what he has done; I felt
towards him at Richeport a hate which never deceives me and which I
always feel towards cowards and hypocrites; he talked too much of virtue
not to be a scoundrel. I would I had the power to raze out from my life
the time that I loved him. It is impossible to oppose this revolting
marriage. How is it possible that Irene de Chateaudun, who was to enjoy
the honor of being your wife, whom you had represented to me as a woman
of high intelligence and lofty culture, could have allowed herself to
be impressed, after having known you, by the jeremiads of this
sentimental sniveller? Since Eve, women have disliked all that is noble,
frank and loyal; to fall is an unconquerable necessity of their nature;
they have always preferred, to the voice of an honorable man, the
perfidious whisper of the evil spirit, which shows its painted face
among the leaves and wraps its slimy coils around the fatal tree.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN.

XXXIV.

RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isere).

Paris, Aug. 11th 18--.

This is probably the last letter that I shall ever write to you. Do not
pity me, my fate is more worthy of envy than of pity. I never knew, I
never dreamed of anything more beautiful. It has been said time and
again that real life is tame, spiritless and disenchanted by the side of
the fictions of the poets. What a mistake! There is a more wonderful
inventor than any rhapsodist, and that inventor is called reality. It
wears the magic ring, and imagination is but a poor magician compared
with it. Madame, do not write to Mademoiselle de Chateaudun. Since you
have not done so my letters must necessarily have miscarried. Blessed be
the happy chance which prevented you from following my advice! What did
I say to you? I was a fool. Be careful not to alar