?" said she, with a sigh. Pont-de-Veyle saw a
torn letter, the dry bouquet of half a century, the kind of flowers of
which it was composed could hardly be recognized. "Well?" asked
Pont-de-Veyle. "Well, do you understand?" "Not at all." "Look at that
portrait." She pointed with her finger to a wretched portrait in oils,
covered with dust and spider's web. "I begin to understand." "Yes," said
she, "that is his portrait. As for myself, I never look at it. The one
here," striking her breast, "is more like. A portrait is a good thing for
those who have no time for memory."

Pont-de-Veyle looked in turn with much interest at the letter, the faded
bouquet, and the wretched portrait. "Have you ever met this person?"
"Never." "Let us return, then." "No; I beg let me hear the story." "Is it
not enough to have seen his portrait? You can now settle your dispute with
a word, since you know whether he whom I loved the most resembles your
friend who had taken so much wine." "He does not resemble him the least in
the world." "Well, that is all: I forgive your visit. Farewell! When you
breakfast with your friends, you can take up my defence somewhat. You can
tell those libertines without pity, that I have saved myself by my heart,
if we can be saved that way.... Yes, yes; it is my plank of safety, in the
wreck!"

Saying these words, Mademoiselle de Camargo approached the door of the
saloon. Pont-de-Veyle followed her, carrying the ebony-box. "Gentlemen,"
said he, to his merry friends, "our drunken toper was a coxcomb; I have
seen the portrait of the best beloved of the goddess of this mansion; now,
you must join your prayers to mine, to prevail upon Mademoiselle de
Camargo to relate to us the romance of her heart; I only know the preface,
which is melancholy and interesting; I have seen a letter, a bouquet, and
a portrait." "I will not tell you a word," muttered she; "women are
charged with not being able to keep a secret; there is, however, more than
one that they never tell. A love-secret is a rose which embalms our
hearts; if it is told, the rose loses its perfume. I who address you,"
said Mademoiselle de Camargo, in brightening up, "I have only kept my love
in all its freshness by keeping it all to myself. There were only La
Carton and that old rogue Fontenelle who ever got hold of my secret.
Fontenelle was in the habit of dining frequently with me; one day, finding
me in tears, he was so surprised, he who never wept himself, from