eeable picture in an ugly frame; that is to say, a poorly dressed
woman in a poorly furnished room. So you now see why, not wishing to
disgust my future husband, I was careful that he should not see this
ugly picture.

Ah! you speak to me of my dear ideal, and you say you love him? Ah! to
him alone could I fearlessly read these beautiful pages of my life. But
let us banish him from our minds; I would forget him!

Once I was very near betraying myself; my cousin and I called on a
Russian lady residing in furnished apartments on Rivoli street.

M. de Monbert was there--as I took a seat near the fire, the Countess R.
handed me a screen--I at once recognised a painting of my own. It
represented Paul and Virginia gardening with Domingo.

How horrible did all three look! Time and dust had curiously altered the
faces of my characters; by an inexplicable phenomenon Virginia and
Domingo had changed complexions; Virginia was a negress, and Domingo was
enfranchised, bleached, he had cast aside the tint of slavery and was a
pure Caucasian. The absurdity of the picture made me laugh, and M. de
Monbert inquired the cause of my merriment. I showed him the screen, and
he said "How very horrible!" and I was about to add "I painted it," when
some one interrupted us, and so prevented the betrayal of my secret.

You will not have to scold me any more; I am going to take your advice
and leave Pont de l'Arche to-day. Oh I how I wish I were in Paris this
minute! I am dreadfully tired of this little place, it is so wearying to
play poverty.

When I was really poor, the modest life I had to lead, the cruel
privations I had to suffer, seemed to me to be noble and dignified.

Misery has its grandeur, and every sorrow has its poetry; but when the
humility of life is voluntary and privations mere caprices, misery loses
all its prestige, and the romantic sufferings we needlessly impose on
ourselves, are intolerable, because there is no courage or merit in
enduring them.

This sentiment I feel must be natural, for my old companion in
misfortune, my good and faithful Blanchard, holds the same views that I
do. You know how devoted she was to me during my long weary days of
trouble!

She faithfully served me three years with no reward other than the
approval of her own conscience. She, who was so proud of keeping my
mother's house, resembling a stewardess of the olden time; when
misfortune came, converted herself for my sake into maid of all w