mind live and thrive only in a
sphere invisible, not in daily life; the wife of a poet bears the
burden; she sees the jewels manufactured, but she never wears
them. If the glory of the position fascinates you, hear me now
when I tell you that its pleasures are soon at an end. You will
suffer when you find so many asperities in a nature which, from a
distance, you thought equable, and such coldness at the shining
summit. Moreover, as women never set their feet within the world
of real difficulties, they cease to appreciate what they once
admired as soon as they think they see the inner mechanism of it.

I close with a last thought, in which there is no disguised
entreaty; it is the counsel of a friend. The exchange of souls can
take place only between persons who are resolved to hide nothing
from each other. Would you show yourself for such as you are to an
unknown man? I dare not follow out the consequences of that idea.

Deign to accept, mademoiselle, the homage which we owe to all
women, even those who are disguised and masked.

So this was the letter she had worn between her flesh and her corset
above her palpitating heart throughout one whole day! For this she had
postponed the reading until the midnight hour when the household slept,
waiting for the solemn silence with the eager anxiety of an imagination
on fire! For this she had blessed the poet by anticipation, reading a
thousand letters ere she opened one,--fancying all things, except this
drop of cold water falling upon the vaporous forms of her illusion, and
dissolving them as prussic acid dissolves life. What could she do but
hide herself in her bed, blow out her candle, bury her face in the
sheets and weep?

All this happened during the first days of July. But Modeste presently
got up, walked across the room and opened the window. She wanted air.
The fragrance of the flowers came to her with the peculiar freshness of
the odors of the night. The sea, lighted by the moon, sparkled like a
mirror. A nightingale was singing in a tree. "Ah, there is the poet!"
thought Modeste, whose anger subsided at once. Bitter reflections chased
each other through her mind. She was cut to the quick; she wished to
re-read the letter, and lit a candle; she studied the sentences so
carefully studied when written; and ended by hearing the wheezing voice
of the outer world.

"He is right, and I am wrong," she said to herself. "But who could ever