irls must be very skilful in concealing their
inmost feelings! When he was unhappy he had it out by himself, he took
refuge in solitude, he wanted to be done with existence. Everybody knew
when anything went wrong with him. Why could not Jacqueline have let him
know more plainly what it was that troubled her, and why could she not
have shown a little tenderness toward him, instead of assuming, even
when she said the kindest things to him, her air of mockery? And then,
though she might pretend not to find Lizerolles stupid, he could see
that she was bored there. Yet why had she chosen to stay at Lizerolles
rather than go to Italy?

Alas! how that little pink letter made him reflect and guess, and turn
things over in his mind, and wish himself at the devil--that little pink
letter which he carried day and night on his breast and made it crackle
as it lay there, when he laid his hand on the satin folds so near his
heart! It had an odor of sweet violets which seemed to him to overpower
the smell of pitch and of salt water, to fill the air, to perfume
everything.

"That young fellow has the instincts of a sailor," said his superior
officers when they saw him standing in attitudes which they thought
denoted observation, though with him it was only reverie. He would stand
with his eyes fixed upon some distant point, whence he fancied he could
see emerging from the waves a small, brown, shining head, with long hair
streaming behind, the head of a girl swimming, a girl he knew so well.

"One can see that he takes an interest in nautical phenomena, that he
is heart and soul in his profession, that he cares for nothing else. Oh,
he'll make a sailor! We may be sure of that!"

Fred sent his young friend and cousin, by way of reply, a big packet
of manuscript, the leaves of which were of all sizes, over which he
had poured forth torrents of poetry, amorous and descriptive, under the
title: At Sea.

Never would he have dared to show her this if the ocean had not lain
between them. He was frightened when his packet had been sent. His only
comfort was in the thought that he had hypocritically asked Jacqueline
for her literary opinion of his verses; but she could not fail, he
thought, to understand.

Long before an answer could have been expected, he got another letter,
sky-blue this time, much longer than the first, giving him an account of
Giselle's wedding.

"Your mother and I went together to Normandy, where the marriage w