"There is everything in Spain, even Spaniards of the old school," my
mother replied. "The Baron de Macumer obtained a passport, not without difficulty,
from the King of Sardinia," the young diplomatist went on. "He has now
become a Sardinian subject, and he possesses a magnificent estate in
the island with full feudal rights. He has a palace at Sassari. If
Ferdinand VII. were to die, Macumer would probably go in for
diplomacy, and the Court of Turin would make him ambassador. Though
young, he is--" "Ah! he is young?"
"Certainly, mademoiselle . . . though young, he is one of the most
distinguished men in Spain."
I scanned the house meanwhile through my opera-glass, and seemed to
lend an inattentive ear to the secretary; but, between ourselves, I
was wretched at having burnt his letter. In what terms would a man
like that express his love? For he does love me. To be loved, adored
in secret; to know that in this house, where all the great men of
Paris were collected, there was one entirely devoted to me, unknown to
everybody! Ah! Renee, now I understand the life of Paris, its balls,
and its gaieties. It all flashed on me in the true light. When we
love, we must have society, were it only to sacrifice it to our love.
I felt a different creature--and such a happy one! My vanity, pride,
self-love,--all were flattered. Heaven knows what glances I cast upon
the audience!
"Little rogue!" the Duchess whispered in my ear with a smile.
Yes, Renee, my wily mother had deciphered the hidden joy in my
bearing, and I could only haul down my flag before such feminine
strategy. Those two words taught me more of worldly wisdom than I have
been able to pick up in a year--for we are in March now. Alas! no more
Italian opera in another month. How will life be possible without that
heavenly music, when one's heart is full of love?
When I got home, my dear, with determination worthy of a Chaulieu, I
opened my window to watch a shower of rain. Oh! if men knew the magic
spell that a heroic action throws over us, they would indeed rise to
greatness! a poltroon would turn hero! What I had learned about my
Spaniard drove me into a very fever. I felt certain that he was there,
ready to aim another letter at me.
I was right, and this time I burnt nothing. Here, then, is the first
love-letter I have received, madame logician: each to her kind:-