horses. In the evening there was great
excitement at the opera. It was solemnly announced to the public that
Mademoiselle de Camargo had been carried off! The Count de Melun surprised
at not finding us in the woods, had gone to the theatre. He was hissed; he
swore revenge. He sought every where; he found neither his horses, nor his
carriage, nor his mistress. For three months the opera was in mourning!
Thirty bailiffs were on my track; but we made so little noise in our
little chateau, hid away in the woods, that we were never discovered."

Mademoiselle de Camargo became pale; she was silent, and looked at her
listeners as if she would say by her looks that had been lighted up at
that celestial flame which had passed over her life: "Oh, how we loved
each other during those three months!"

She continued as follows: "That season has filled a greater space in my
life than all the rest of my days. When I think of the past, it is there
where my thoughts travel at once. How relate to you the particulars of our
happiness? When destiny protects us, happiness is composed of a thousand
charming nothings that the hearts of others cannot understand. During
those three months I was entirely happy; I wished to live for ever in this
charming retreat for him that I loved a thousand times more than myself. I
wished to abandon the opera, that opera that the Count de Melun could not
make me forget for a week!

"Monsieur de Marteille possessed all the attraction of a real passion; he
loved me with a charming simplicity; he put in play, without designing it,
all the seductions of love. What tender words! what impassioned looks!
what enticing conversation! Each day was a holyday, each hour a rapture. I
had no time to think of the morrow.

"Our days were spent in walks, in the shade of the woods, in the thousand
windings of the park. In the evening I played the harpsichord, and I sang.
It often occurred that I danced, danced for him. In the middle of a dance
that would have excited a furor at the opera, I fell at his feet,
completely overcome; he raised me up, pressed me to his heart and forgave
me for having danced. I always hear his beautiful voice, which was like
music, but such music as I dream of, and not such as Rameau has
composed... But now I am speaking without knowing what I say."

Mademoiselle de Camargo turned toward Pont-de-Veyle. "Monsieur," said she,
"open that box or rather hand it to me." She took the box, opened it, and