quotations of my
chance remarks, which, rather to my surprise, showed me that the proverb,
"_Les absens ont toujours tort_," was true in more senses than one, and
that the Frenchman occasionally lost ground by being fifty miles off. Once
or twice it seemed to me that the little "betrothed" was evidently
thinking of the error of precipitate vows, and was beginning to change her
mind. But her last letter was a complete extinguisher of all my vanity, if
it had ever been awakened. It was a curious mingling of poignancy and
penitence; an acknowledgment of the pain which she felt in ever having
given pain, and almost an entreaty that he would hasten his affairs in
London, and return to Brighton, to "guard her against herself, once and
for ever."

All this was quite as it should be; but the envelope contained an enormous
postscript, of which I happened to be the theme. It was evidently written
in another mood of mind; and except that passion is blind, and even
refuses to see, when it might, I should probably have had another
rencontre with the best swordsman in the _Chevaux Legers_. After speaking
of me and my prospects in life, with an interest which reached at least to
the full amount of friendship, the subject of my reveries came on the
tapis. "My father and Mr Marston are on the point of going to town," said
the postscript; "the latter to dream of Mademoiselle De Tourville, without
the smallest hope of ever obtaining her hand. But I scarcely know what to
think of him and his feelings--if feelings they can be called--which
change like the fashions of the day, and at the mercy of all the triflers
of the day; or like the butterfly fluttering round the garden, as if
merely to show that it can flutter. This habit must make him for ever
incapable of the generous devotedness of heart and truth of affection
which I so much value in my '_friend_.'" But here Lafontaine interfered,
obviously through fear of my plunging into some discovery of my own
demerits, which had not struck him on his first perusal; and I surrendered
the letter, postscript and all, having first ascertained by a glance, that
the former was dated at the very hour of the discovery of my unlucky
stanzas to Clotilde, and the latter probably after the "fair penitent" had
time to reflect on the matter, and let compassion make its way. Woman is a
brilliant problem--but a problem after all.

A sudden trampling of cavalry and loud rush of carriages prevented my
attemptin