and enchanting. And she is a married woman, with all the complications
and duties of a household. The fibs that she must invent, the reasons
she must find for conforming to my whims would tax the ingenuity of
some of us! . . . Claudine never wearies; you can always count upon
her. It is not love, I tell her, it is infatuation. She writes to me
every day; I do not read her letters; she found that out, but still
she writes. See here; there are two hundred letters in this casket.
She begs me to wipe my razors on one of her letters every day, and I
punctually do so. She thinks, and rightly, that the sight of her
handwriting will put me in mind of her.'

"La Palferine was dressing as he told us this. I took up the letter
which he was about to put to this use, read it, and kept it, as he did
not ask to have it back. Here it is. I looked for it, and found it as
I promised.


"_Monday (Midnight)._

"'Well, my dear, are you satisfied with me? I did not even ask
for your hand, yet you might easily have given it to me, and I
longed so much to hold it to my heart, to my lips. No, I did not
ask, I am so afraid of displeasing you. Do you know one thing?
Though I am cruelly sure that anything I do is a matter of perfect
indifference to you, I am none the less extremely timid in my
conduct: the woman that belongs to you, whatever her title to call
herself yours, must not incur so much as the shadow of blame. In
so far as love comes from the angels in heaven, from whom are no
secrets hid, my love is as pure as the purest; wherever I am I
feel that I am in your presence, and I try to do you honor.