order to arrive at my desk. Look, here is a portrait of Raphael.
Beside it is a likeness of the adorable lady whom he loved.

But I have something still finer than these, and I always reserve it for
the last. I find that both connoisseurs and ignoramuses, both women of
the world and little children, yes, and even animals, are pleased and
astonished by the way in which this sublime work renders every effect in
nature. What picture can I present to you, gentlemen; what scene can I
put beneath your lovely eyes, ladies, more certain of winning your
favour than the faithful image of yourselves? The work of which I speak
is a looking-glass, and nobody up to the present has taken it into his
head to criticise it; it is, for all those who study it, a perfect
picture in which there is nothing to blame. It is thus the gem of my
collection.

You see this withered rose? It is a flower of the Turin carnival of last
year. I gathered it myself at Valentin's, and in the evening, an hour
before the ball, I went full of hope and joy to present it to Mme. de
Hautcastel. She took it, and placed it on her dressing-table without
looking at it, and without looking at me. But how could she take any
notice of me? Standing in an ectasy before a great mirror, she was
putting the last touches to her finery. So totally was she absorbed in
the ribbons, the gauzes, the ornaments heaped up before her, that I
could not obtain a glance, a sign. I finished my losing patience, and
being unable to resist the feeling of anger that swept over me, I took
up the rose and walked out without taking leave of my sweetheart.

"Are you going?" she said, turning round to see her figure in profile.

I did not answer, but I listened at the door to learn if my brusque
departure produced any effect.

"Do you not see," exclaimed Mme. de Hautcastel to her maid, after a
short silence, "that this pelisse is much too full at the bottom? Get
some pins and make a tuck in it."

That is how I come to have a withered rose on my desk. I shall make no
reflections on the affair. I shall not even draw any conclusions from it
concerning the force and duration of a woman's love.

My forty-two days are coming to an end, and an equal space of time would
not suffice to describe the rich country in which I am now travelling,
for I have at last reached my bookshelf. It contains nothing but
novels--yes, I shall be candid--nothing but novels and a few choice
poets. As though I had not