"All his thoughts must have a high and chivalrous character,without alloy of self-seeking;while his actions should be marked by a total absence of interested or sordid motives.Any weak points he may have will arise from the very elevation of his views above those of the common herd,for in every respect I would have him superior to his age.Ever mindful of the delicate attentions due to the weak,he will be gentle to all women,but not prone lightly to fall in love with any;for love will seem to him too serious to turn into a game.
"Thus it might happen that he would spend his life in ignorance of true love,while all the time possessing those qualities most fitted to inspire it.But if ever he find the ideal woman who has haunted his waking dreams,if he meet with a nature capable of understanding his own,one who could fill his soul and pour sunlight over his life,could shine as a star through the mists of this chill and gloomy world,lend fresh charm to existence,and draw music from the hitherto silent chords of his being--needless to say,he would recognize and welcome his good fortune.
"And she,too,would be happy.Never,by word or look,would he wound the tender heart which abandoned itself to him,with the blind trust of a child reposing in its mother's arms.For were the vision shattered,it would be the wreck of her inner life.To the mighty waters of love she would confide her all!
"The man I picture must belong,in expression,in attitude,in gait,in his way of performing alike the smallest and the greatest actions,to that race of the truly great who are always simple and natural.He need not be good-looking,but his hands must be beautiful.His upper lip will curl with a careless,ironic smile for the general public,whilst he reserves for those he loves the heavenly,radiant glance in which he puts his soul.""Will mademoiselle allow me,"he said in Spanish,in a voice full of agitation,"to keep this writing in memory of her?This is the last lesson I shall have the honor of giving her,and that which I have just received in these words may serve me for an abiding rule of life.
I left Spain,a fugitive and penniless,but I have to-day received from my family a sum sufficient for my needs.You will allow me to send some poor Spaniard in my place."In other words,he seemed to me to say,"This little game must stop."He rose with an air of marvelous dignity,and left me quite upset by such unheard-of delicacy in a man of his class.He went downstairs and asked to speak with my father.
At dinner my father said to me with a smile:
"Louise,you have been learning Spanish from an ex-minister and a man condemned to death.""The Duc de Soria,"I said.
"Duke!"replied my father."No,he is not that any longer;he takes the title now of Baron de Macumer from a property which still remains to him in Sardinia.He is something of an original,I think.""Don't brand with that word,which with you always implies some mockery and scorn,a man who is your equal,and who,I believe,has a noble nature.""Baronne de Macumer?"exclaimed my father,with a laughing glance at me.
Pride kept my eyes fixed on the table.
"But,"said my mother,"Henarez must have met the Spanish ambassador on the steps?""Yes,"replied my father,"the ambassador asked me if I was conspiring against the King,his master;but he greeted the ex-grandee of Spain with much deference,and placed his services at his disposal."All this,dear,Mme.de l'Estorade,happened a fortnight ago,and it is a fortnight now since I have seen the man who loves me,for that he loves me there is not a doubt.What is he about?If only I were a fly,or a mouse,or a sparrow!I want to see him alone,myself unseen,at his house.Only think,a man exists,to whom I can say,"Go and die for me!"And he is so made that he would go,at least I think so.
Anyhow,there is in Paris a man who occupies my thoughts,and whose glance pours sunshine into my soul.Is not such a man an enemy,whom Iought to trample under foot?What?There is a man who has become necessary to me--a man without whom I don't know how to live!You married,and I--in love!Four little months,and those two doves,whose wings erst bore them so high,have fluttered down upon the flat stretches of real life!
Sunday.
Yesterday,at the Italian Opera,I could feel some one was looking at me;my eyes were drawn,as by a magnet,to two wells of fire,gleaming like carbuncles in a dim corner of the orchestra.Henarez never moved his eyes from me.The wretch had discovered the one spot from which he could see me--and there he was.I don't know what he may be as a politician,but for love he has a genius.
Behold,my fair Renee,where our business now stands,as the great Corneille has said.
