journal of a thousand incidents as interesting and important to two
people as they are stupid and ridiculous to every one else. Each day was
one of progress; finally, we loved each other. Excuse the homely
platitude in this avowal.

Irene seemed perfect; her only fault, being an heiress, was lost in the
intoxication of my love; everything was arranged, and in spite of her
money I was to marry her.

I was delirious with joy, my feet spurned the earth. My bliss was the
ecstasy of the blest. My delight seemed to color the contentment of
other men with gloom, and I felt like begging pardon for being so happy.
It seemed that this valley of tears, astonished that any one should from
a terrestrial paradise gaze upon its afflictions and still be happy,
would revolt against me!

My dear Edgar, the smoke of hell has darkened my vision--I grope in the
gloom of a terrible mystery--Vainly do I strive to solve it, and I turn
to you for aid.

Irene has left Paris! Home, street, city, all deserted! A damp, dark
nothingness surrounds me!

Not an adieu! a line! a message! to console me--

Women do such things--

I have done all in my power, and attempted the impossible to find Irene,
but without success. If she only had some ground of complaint against
me, how happy I would be.