interwoven to keep up the
mystification.

But an artist like Merimee would not have left his work in so unformed a
state, so defaced by repetitions, or with such a want of proportion
between the parts. The Inconnue was undoubtedly a real person, and her
letters in answer to those of Merimee have just been published by Messrs.
Macmillan under the title of An Author's Love.

Her letters? Well, they are such letters as she might have written. 'By
the tideless sea at Cannes on a summer day,' says their anonymous author,
'I had fallen asleep, and the plashing of the waves upon the shore had
doubtless made me dream. When I awoke the yellow paper-covered volumes
of Prosper Merimee's Lettres a une Inconnue lay beside me; I had been
reading the book before I fell asleep, but the answers--had they ever
been written, or had I only dreamed?' The invention of the love-letters
of a curious and unknown personality, the heroine of one of the great
literary flirtations of our age, was a clever idea, and certainly the
author has carried out his scheme with wonderful success; with such
success indeed that it is said that one of our statesmen, whose name
occurs more than once in the volume, was for a moment completely taken in
by what is really a jeu-d'esprit, the first serious joke perpetrated by
Messrs. Macmillan in their publishing capacity. Perhaps it is too much
to call it a joke. It is a fine, delicate piece of fiction, an
imaginative attempt to complete a real romance. As we had the letters of
the academic Romeo, it was obviously right that we should pretend we had
the answers of the clever and somewhat mondaine Juliet. Or is it Juliet
herself, in her little Paris boudoir, looking over these two volumes with
a sad, cynical smile? Well, to be put into fiction is always a tribute
to one's reality.

As for extracts from these fascinating forgeries, the letters should be
read in conjunction with those of Merimee himself. It is difficult to
judge of them by samples. We find the Inconnue first in London, probably
in 1840.

Little (she writes) can you imagine the storm of indignation you
aroused in me by your remark that your feelings for me were those
suitable for a fourteen-year-old niece. Merci. Anything less like a
respectable uncle than yourself I cannot well imagine. The role would
never suit you, believe me, so do not try it.

Now in return for your story of the phlegmatic musical animal who