I were weak enough to write you any
more letters they would become as tedious as the life I lead.
Anyway, have I not had the best part of you, in that hesitant
letter of yours which shook me out of my lethargy for an
instant? Like yourself, monsieur, I know, alas! that nothing
happens, and that our only certain joys are those we dream of.
So, in spite of my feverish desire to know you, I fear that you
were right in saying that a meeting would be for both of us the
source of regrets to which we ought not voluntarily expose
ourselves....'

"Then what bears witness to the perfect futility of this exordium is the
way the missive ends:

"'If you should take the fancy to write me, you can safely
address your letters "Mme. Maubel, rue Littre, general
delivery." I shall be passing the rue Littre post-office Monday.
If you wish to let matters remain just where they are--and thus
cause me a great deal of pain--will you not tell me so,
frankly?'

"Whereupon I was simple-minded enough to compose an epistle as
ambiguous as the first, concealing my furtive advances under an apparent
reluctance, thus letting her know that I was securely hooked. As her
third note proves:

"'Never accuse yourself, monsieur--I repress a tenderer name
which rises to my lips--of being unable to give me consolation.
Weary, disabused, as we are, and done with it all, let us
sometimes permit our souls to speak to each other--low, very
low--as I have spoken to you this night, for henceforth my
thought is going to follow you wherever you are.'

"Four pages of the same tune," he said, turning the leaves, "but this is
better:

"'Tonight, my unknown friend, one word only. I have passed a
horrible day, my nerves in revolt and crying out against the
petty sufferings they are subjected to every minute. A slamming
door, a harsh or squeaky voice floating up to me out of the
street.... Yet there are whole hours when I am so far from being
sensitive that if the house were burning I should not move. Am I
about to send you a page of comic lamentations? Ah, when one has
not the gift of rendering one's grief superbly and transforming
it into literary or musical passages which weep magnificently,
the best thing is to keep still about it.

"'I bid you a silent goodnight. As on the first day, I am
harassed by the conflict of the desire t