Oh! Renee, you burn my letters, don't you? I will burn yours. If other
eyes than ours were to read these thoughts which pass from heart to
heart, I should send Felipe to put them out, and perhaps to kill the
owners, by way of additional security. Monday.
Oh! Renee, how is it possible to fathom the heart of man? My father
ought to introduce me to M. Bonald, since he is so learned; I would
ask him. I envy the privilege of God, who can read the undercurrents
of the heart. Does he still worship?
That is the whole question. If ever, in gesture, glance, or tone, I were to detect the slightest
falling off in the respect he used to show me in the days when he was
my instructor in Spanish, I feel that I should have strength to put
the whole thing from me. "Why these fine words, these grand
resolutions?" you will say. Dear, I will tell you.
My fascinating father, who treats me with the devotion of an Italian
cavaliere servente for his lady, had my portrait painted, as I told
you, by Mme. de Mirbel. I contrived to get a copy made, good enough to
do for the Duke, and sent the original to Felipe. I despatched it
yesterday, and these lines with it:
"Don Felipe, your single-hearted devotion is met by a blind
confidence. Time will show whether this is not to treat a man as
more than human." It was a big reward. It looked like a promise and--dreadful to say--a
challenge; but--which will seem to you still more dreadful--I quite
intended that it should suggest both these things, without going so
far as actually to commit me. If in his reply there is "Dear Louise!"
or even "Louise," he is done for! Tuesday. No, he is not done for.
The constitutional minister is perfect as a
lover. Here is his letter:-
"Every moment passed away from your sight has been filled by me
with ideal pictures of you, my eyes closed to the outside world
and fixed in meditation on your image, which used to obey the
summons too slowly in that dim palace of dreams, glorified by your
presence. Henceforth my gaze will rest upon this wondrous ivory
--this talisman, might I not say?--since your blue eyes sparkle with
life as I look, and paint passes into flesh and blood. If I have
delayed writing, it is because I could not tear myself away from
your presence, which wrung from me all that I was bound to keep
most secret.