tend to melancholy, that is a modern
sentiment, springing from the overthrow of fortunes and the weakness of
man. In the eighteenth century it was rare to dream of abstract things,
or aspire to the unknown: men went straight to pleasure, glory, or
fortune, and all who were handsome, brave or intriguing could attain
them. That was the time when people were not ashamed to be happy. Now
mind governs matter so much that men dare not avow that they are happy.

After the long and somber winter of Louis XIV.'s old age appeared all at
once the joyous and brilliant spring of a young royalty. Every one
basked in this new sun, radiant and benevolent, and went about buzzing
and careless, like the bees and butterflies on the first fine day. The
Chevalier d'Harmental had retained his sadness for a week; then he mixed
again in the crowd, and was drawn in by the whirlpool which threw him at
the feet of a pretty woman.

For three months he had been the happiest man in the world. He had
forgotten Saint Cyr, the Tuileries, and the Palais Royal. He did not
know whether there was a Madame de Maintenon, a king, or a regent. He
only knew that it is sweet to live when one is loved, and he did not see
why he should not live and love forever. He was still in this dream,
when, as we have said, supping with his friend, the Baron de Valef, at
La Fillon's, in the Rue Saint Honore, he had been all at once brutally
awakened by Lafare. Lovers are often unpleasantly awakened, and we have
seen that D'Harmental was not more patient under it than others. It was
more pardonable in the chevalier, because he thought he loved truly, and
that in his juvenile good faith he thought nothing could replace that
love in his heart.

Thus Madame d'Averne's strange but candid letter, instead of inspiring
him with the admiration which it merited at that time, had at first
overwhelmed him. It is the property of every sorrow which overtakes us
to reawaken past griefs which we believed dead, but which were only
sleeping. The soul has its scars as well as the body, and they are
seldom so well healed but a new wound can reopen them.

D'Harmental again began to feel ambitious. The loss of his mistress had
recalled to him the loss of his regiment. It required nothing less than
the second letter, so unexpected and mysterious, to divert him from his
grief. A lover of our days would have thrown it from him with disdain,
and would have despised himself if he had not nursed his g