Letters of Two Brides

"The man I picture must belong, in expression, in attitude, in gait,

in his way of performing alike the smallest and the greatest actions,

to that race of the truly great who are always simple and natural. He

need not be good-looking, but his hands must be beautiful. His upper

lip will curl with a careless, ironic smile for the general public,

whilst he reserves for those he loves the heavenly, radiant glance in

which he puts his soul."

"Will mademoiselle allow me," he said in Spanish, in a voice full of

agitation, "to keep this writing in memory of her? This is the last

lesson I shall have the honor of giving her, and that which I have

just received in these words may serve me for an abiding rule of life.

I left Spain, a fugitive and penniless, but I have to-day received

from my family a sum sufficient for my needs. You will allow me to

send some poor Spaniard in my place."

In other words, he seemed to me to say, "This little game must stop."

He rose with an air of marvelous dignity, and left me quite upset by

such unheard-of delicacy in a man of his class. He went downstairs and

asked to speak with my father. At dinner my father said to me with a smile:

"Louise, you have been learning Spanish from an ex-minister and a man

condemned to death."

"The Duc de Soria," I said. "Duke!" replied my father. "No, he is not that any longer; he takes

the title now of Baron de Macumer from a property which still remains

to him in Sardinia. He is something of an original, I think."

"Don't brand with that word, which with you always implies some

mockery and scorn, a man who is your equal, and who, I believe, has a

noble nature." "Baronne de Macumer?" exclaimed my father, with a laughing glance at

me. Pride kept my eyes fixed on the table.

"But," said my mother, "Henarez must have met the Spanish ambassador

on the steps?" "Yes," replied my father, "the ambassador asked me if I was conspiring

against the King, his master; but he greeted the ex-grandee of Spain

with much deference, and placed his services at his disposal."

All this, dear, Mme. de l'Estorade, happened a fortnight ago, and it

is a fortnight now since I have seen the man who loves me, for that he

loves me there is not a doubt. What is he about? If only I were a fly,

or a mouse, or a sparrow! I want to see him alone, myself unseen, at

his house. Only think, a man exists, to whom I can say, "Go and die

for me!"