her. To pass the nights under
the windows of one's beloved is a folly dear to lovers, but, in the
present case, it would certainly prove vain. I said before that Croisilles
was very religious; it therefore never entered his mind to seek to meet
his lady-love at church. As the best way, though the most dangerous, is to
write to people when one cannot speak to them in person, he decided on the
very next day to write to the young lady.

His letter possessed, naturally, neither order nor reason. It read
somewhat as follows:

"Mademoiselle,--Tell me exactly, I beg of you, what fortune one must
possess to be able to pretend to your hand. I am asking you a strange
question; but I love you so desperately, that it is impossible for me not
to ask it, and you are the only person in the world to whom I can address
it. It seemed to me, last evening, that you looked at me at the play. I
had wished to die; would to God I were indeed dead, if I am mistaken, and
if that look was not meant for me. Tell me if Fate can be so cruel as to
let a man deceive himself in a manner at once so sad and so sweet. I
believe that you commanded me to live. You are rich, beautiful. I know it.
Your father is arrogant and miserly, and you have a right to be proud; but
I love you, and the rest is a dream. Fix your charming eyes on me; think
of what love can do, when I who suffer so cruelly, who must stand in fear
of every thing, feel, nevertheless, an inexpressible joy in writing you
this mad letter, which will perhaps bring down your anger upon me. But
think also, mademoiselle that you are a little to blame for this, my
folly. Why did you drop that bouquet? Put yourself for an instant, if
possible, in my place; I dare think that you love me, and I dare ask you
to tell me so. Forgive me, I beseech you. I would give my life's blood to
be sure of not offending you, and to see you listening to my love with
that angel smile which belongs only to you.

"Whatever you may do, your image remains mine; you can remove it only by
tearing out my heart. As long as your look lives in my remembrance, as
long as the bouquet keeps a trace of its perfume, as long as a word will
tell of love, I will cherish hope."

Having sealed his letter, Croisilles went out and walked up and down the
street opposite the Godeau mansion, waiting for a servant to come out.
Chance, which always serves mysterious loves, when it can do so without
compromising itself, willed it that Mademoisel