ak of marriage in a certain tone, I might perhaps have noted
it as vulgar in that accomplished soul.

"Six months, full and perfect--a diamond of the purest water! That has
been my portion of love in this base world.

"One morning, attacked by the feverish stiffness which marks the
beginning of a cold, I wrote her a line to put off one of those secret
festivals which are buried under the roofs of Paris like pearls in the
sea. No sooner was the letter sent than remorse seized me: she will not
believe that I am ill! thought I. She was wont to affect jealousy and
suspiciousness.--When jealousy is genuine," said de Marsay, interrupting
himself, "it is the visible sign of an unique passion."

"Why?" asked the Princesse de Cadignan eagerly.

"Unique and true love," said de Marsay, "produces a sort of corporeal
apathy attuned to the contemplation into which one falls. Then the mind
complicates everything; it works on itself, pictures its fancies, turns
them into reality and torment; and such jealousy is as delightful as it
is distressing."

A foreign minister smiled as, by the light of memory, he felt the truth
of this remark.

"Besides," de Marsay went on, "I said to myself, why miss a happy hour?
Was it not better to go, even though feverish? And, then, if she learns
that I am ill, I believe her capable of hurrying here and compromising
herself. I made an effort; I wrote a second letter, and carried it
myself, for my confidential servant was now gone. The river lay between
us. I had to cross Paris; but at last, within a suitable distance of
her house, I caught sight of a messenger; I charged him to have the note
sent up to her at once, and I had the happy idea of driving past her
door in a hackney cab to see whether she might not by chance receive the
two letters together. At the moment when I arrived it was two o'clock;
the great gate opened to admit a carriage. Whose?--That of the
stalking-horse!

"It is fifteen years since--well, even while I tell the tale, I, the
exhausted orator, the Minister dried up by the friction of public
business, I still feel a surging in my heart and the hot blood about my
diaphragm. At the end of an hour I passed once more; the carriage was
still in the courtyard! My note no doubt was in the porter's hands. At
last, at half-past three, the carriage drove out. I could observe my
rival's expression; he was grave, and did not smile; but he was in love,
and no doubt there was business in ha