up a candle and looked at her severe face, hanging far up in
an old gilt frame. Then, as I found it insignificant, disagreeable,
even unsympathetic, I began to examine the furniture. It dated from the
period of Louis XVI, the Revolution and the Directorate. Not a chair,
not a curtain had entered this room since then, and it gave out the
subtle odor of memories, which is the combined odor of wood, cloth,
chairs, hangings, peculiar to places wherein have lived hearts that have
loved and suffered.

I retired but did not sleep. After I had tossed about for an hour or
two, I decided to get up and write some letters.

I opened a little mahogany desk with brass trimmings, which was placed
between the two windows, in hope of finding some ink and paper; but all
I found was a quill-pen, very much worn, and chewed at the end. I was
about to close this piece of furniture, when a shining spot attracted my
attention it looked like the yellow head of a nail. I scratched it with
my finger, and it seemed to move. I seized it between two finger-nails,
and pulled as hard as I could. It came toward me gently. It was a long
gold pin which had been slipped into a hole in the wood and remained
hidden there.

Why? I immediately thought that it must have served to work some spring
which hid a secret, and I looked. It took a long time. After about two
hours of investigation, I discovered another hole opposite the first
one, but at the bottom of a groove. Into this I stuck my pin: a little
shelf sprang toward my face, and I saw two packages of yellow letters,
tied with a blue ribbon.

I read them. Here are two of them:

So you wish me to return to you your letters, my dearest friend.
Here they are, but it pains me to obey. Of what are you afraid?
That I might lose them? But they are under lock and key. Do you
fear that they might be stolen? I guard against that, for they are
my dearest treasure.

Yes, it pains me deeply. I wondered whether, perhaps you might not
be feeling some regret! Not regret at having loved me, for I know
that you still do, but the regret of having expressed on white paper
this living love in hours when your heart did not confide in me, but
in the pen that you held in your hand. When we love, we have need
of confession, need of talking or writing, and we either talk or
write. Words fly away, those sweet words made of music, air and
tenderness, warm and light, which escape as soon