e, and said that she
felt now that I had good reason to suspect the reality of her love. I did
my best to reassure her, and indeed all suspicions on my part would have
been but idle thoughts, as I had succeeded beyond all expectation.
However, there is one point upon which I congratulate myself to this
day--namely, that during those nightly toils of mine, which did so little
towards the object of her desires, I succeeded in inspiring her with such
a feeling of resignation that she promised, of her own accord, not to
despair any more, but to trust in and be guided by me. She often told me
during our nocturnal conversations that she was happy and would continue
to be so, even though the aroph had no effect. Not that she had ceased to
believe in it, for she continued the application of the harmless
preparation till our last assaults, in which we wanted in those sweet
combats to exhaust all the gifts of pleasure.

"Sweetheart," said she, just before we parted finally, "it seems to me
that what we have been about is much more likely to create than to
destroy, and if the aperture had not been hermetically closed we should
doubtless have given the little prisoner a companion."

A doctor of the Sorbonne could not have reasoned better.

Three or four days afterwards I found her thoughtful but quiet. She told
me that she had lost all hope of getting rid of her burden before the
proper time. All the while, however, her mother persecuted her, and she
would have to choose in a few days between making a declaration as to her
state and signing the marriage contract. She would accept neither of
these alternatives, and had decided on escaping from her home, and asked
me to help her in doing so.

I had determined to help her, but I desired to save my reputation, for it
might have been troublesome if it had been absolutely known that I had
carried her off or furnished her with the means to escape. And as for any
other alternative, neither of us had any idea of matrimony.

I left her and went to the Tuileries, where a sacred concert was being
given. The piece was a motet composed by Moudonville, the words by the
Abbe de Voisenon, whom I had furnished with the idea, "The Israelites on
Mount Horeb."

As I was getting out of my carriage, I saw Madame du Remain descending
alone from hers. I ran up to her, and received a hearty welcome. "I am
delighted," said she, "to find you here, it is quite a piece of luck. I
am going to hear this nov