and　beautiful；　have　something　else　to　think　of；　they　are　surrounded
  like　rare　plants　by　a　hedge　of　fools；　well…bred　idiots　as　hollow　as
  elder…bushes！　My　dream；　alas！　the　crystal　of　my　dream；　garlanded　from
  hence　to　the　Correze　with　rosesah！　I　cannot　speak　of　itit　is　in
  fragments　at　my　feet；　and　has　long　been　so。　No；　no；　all　anonymous
  letters　are　begging　letters；　and　what　sort　of　begging？　Write　yourself
  to　that　young　woman；　if　you　suppose　her　young　and　pretty；　and　you'll
  find　out。　There　is　nothing　like　experience。　As　for　me；　I　can't
  reasonably　be　expected　to　love　every　woman；　Apollo；　at　any　rate　he　of
  Belvedere；　is　a　delicate　consumptive　who　must　take　care　of　his
  health。〃
  〃But　when　a　woman　writes　to　you　in　this　way　her　excuse　must　certainly
  be　in　her　consciousness　that　she　is　able　to　eclipse　in　tenderness　and
  beauty　every　other　woman；〃　said　Ernest；　〃and　I　should　think　you　might
  feel　some　curiosity〃
  〃Ah；〃　said　Canalis；　〃permit　me；　my　juvenile　friend；　to　abide　by　the
  beautiful　duchess　who　is　all　my　joy。〃
  〃You　are　right；　you　are　right！〃　cried　Ernest。　However；　the　young
  secretary　read　and　re…read　Modeste's　letter；　striving　to　guess　the
  mind　of　its　hidden　writer。
  〃There　is　not　the　least　fine…writing　here；〃　he　said；　〃she　does　not
  even　talk　of　your　genius；　she　speaks　to　your　heart。　In　your　place　I
  should　feel　tempted　by　this　fragrance　of　modesty；this　proposed
  agreement〃
  〃Then；　sign　it！〃　cried　Canalis；　laughing；　〃answer　the　letter　and　go　to
  the　end　of　the　adventure　yourself。　You　shall　tell　me　the　results　three
  months　henceif　the　affair　lasts　so　long。〃
  Four　days　later　Modeste　received　the　following　letter；　written　on
  extremely　fine　paper；　protected　by　two　envelopes；　and　sealed　with　the
  arms　of　Canalis。
  Mademoiselle；The　admiration　for　fine　works　（allowing　that　my
  books　are　such）　implies　something　so　lofty　and　sincere　as　to
  protect　you　from　all　light　jesting；　and　to　justify　before　the
  sternest　judge　the　step　you　have　taken　in　writing　to　me。
  But　first　I　must　thank　you　for　the　pleasure　which　such　proofs　of
  sympathy　afford；　even　though　we　may　not　merit　them；for　the　maker
  of　verses　and　the　true　poet　are　equally　certain　of　the　intrinsic
  worth　of　their　writings；so　readily　does　self…esteem　lend　itself
  to　praise。　The　best　proof　of　friendship　that　I　can　give　to　an
  unknown　lady　in　exchange　for　a　faith　which　allays　the　sting　of
  criticism；　is　to　share　with　her　the　harvest　of　my　own　experience；
  even　at　the　risk　of　dispelling　her　most　vivid　illusions。
  Mademoiselle；　the　noblest　adornment　of　a　young　girl　is　the　flower
  of　a　pure　and　saintly　and　irreproachable　life。　Are　you　alone　in
  the　world？　If　you　are；　there　is　no　need　to　say　more。　But　if　you
  have　a　family；　a　father　or　a　mother；　think　of　all　the　sorrow　that
  might　come　to　them　from　such　a　letter　as　yours　addressed　to　a　poet
  of　whom　you　know　nothing　personally。　All　writers　are　not　angels；
  they　have　many　defects。　Some　are　frivolous；　heedless；　foppish；
  ambitious；　dissipated；　and；　believe　me；　no　matter　how　imposing
  innocence　may　be；　how　chivalrous　a　poet　is；　you　will　meet　with
  many　a　degenerate　troubadour　in　Paris　ready　to　cultivate　your
  affection　only　to　betray　it。　By　such　a　man　your　letter　would　be
  interpreted　otherwise　than　it　is　by　me。　He　would　see　a　thought
  that　is　not　in　it；　which　you；　in　your　innocence；　have　not
  suspected。　There　are　as　many　natures　as　there　are　writers。　I　am
  deeply　flattered　that　you　have　judged　me　capable　of　understanding
  you；　but　had　you；　perchance；　fallen　upon　a　hypocrite；　a　scoffer；
  one　whose　books　may　be　melancholy　but　whose　life　is　a　perpetual
  carnival；　you　would　have　found　as　the　result　of　your　generous
  imprudence　an　evil…minded　man；　the　frequenter　of　green…rooms；
  perhaps　a　hero　of　some　gay　resort。　In　the　bower　of　clematis　where
  you　dream　of　poets；　can　you　smell　the　odor　of　the　cigar　which
  drives　all　poetry　from　the　manuscript？
  But　let　us　look　still　further。　How　could　the　dreamy；　solitary　life
  you　lead；　doubtless　by　the　sea…shore；　interest　a　poet；　whose
  mission　it　is　to　imagine　all；　and　to　paint　all？　What　reality　can
  equal　imagination？　The　young　girls　of　the　poets　are　so　ideal　that
  no　living　daughter　of　Eve　can　compete　with　them。　And　now　tell　me；
  what　will　you　gain；you；　a　young　girl；　brought　up　to　be　the
  virtuous　mother　of　a　family；if　you　learn　to　comprehend　the
  terrible　agitations　of　a　poet's　life　in　this　dreadful　capital；
  which　may　be　defined　by　one　sentence；the　hell　in　which　men　love。
  If　the　desire　to　brighten　the　monotonous　existence　of　a　young　girl
  thirsting　for　knowledge　has　led　you　to　take　your　pen　in　hand　and
  write　to　me；　has　not　the　step　itself　the　appearance　of
  degradation？　What　meaning　am　I　to　give　to　your　letter？　Are　you　one
  of　a　rejected　caste；　and　do　you　seek　a　friend　far　away　from　you？
  Or；　are　you　afflicted　with　personal　ugliness；　yet　feeling　within
  you　a　noble　soul　which　can　give　and　receive　a　confidence？　Alas；
  alas；　the　conclusion　to　be　drawn　is　grievous。　You　have　said　too
  much；　or　too　little；　you　have　gone　too　far；　or　not　far　enough。
  Either　let　us　drop　this　correspondence；　or；　if　you　continue　it；
  tell　me　more　than　in　the　letter　you　have　now　written　me。
  But；　mademoiselle；　if　you　are　young；　if　you　are　beautiful；　if　you
  have　a　home；　a　family；　if　in　your　heart　you　have　the　precious
  ointment；　the　spikenard；　to　pour　out；　as　did　Magdalene　on　the　feet
  of　Jesus；　let　yourself　be　won　by　a　man　worthy　of　you；　become　what
  every　pure　young　girl　should　be；a　good　woman；　the　virtuous
  mother　of　a　family。　A　poet　is　the　saddest　conquest　that　a　girl　can
  make；　he　is　full　of　vanity；　full　of　angles　that　will　sharply　wound
  a　woman's　proper　pride；　and　kill　a　tenderness　which　has　no
  experience　of　life。　The　wife　of　a　poet　should　love　him　long　before
  she　marries　him；　she　must　train　herself　to　the　charity　of　angels；
  to　their　forbearance；　to　all　the　virtues　of　motherhood。　Such
  qualities；　mademoiselle；　are　but　germs　in　a　young　girl。
  Hear　the　whole　truth；do　I　not　owe　it　to　you　in　return　for　your
  intoxicating　flattery？　If　it　is　a　glorious　thing　to　marry　a　great
  renown；　remember　also　that　you　must　soon　discover　a　superior　man
  to　be；　in　all　that　makes　a　man；　like　other　men。　He　therefore
  poorly　realizes　the　hopes　that　attach　to　him　as　a　phoenix。　He
  becomes　like　a　woman　whose　beauty　is　over…praised；　and　of　whom　we
  say：　〃I　thought　her　far　more　lovely。〃　She　has　not　warranted　the
  portrait　painted　by　the　fairy　to　whom　I　owe　your　letter；the
  fairy　whose　name　is　Imagination。
  Believe　me；　the　qualities　of　the　mind　live　and　thrive　only　in　a
  sphere　invisible；　not　in　daily　life；　the　wife　of　a　poet　bears　the
  burden；　she　sees　the　jewels　manufactured；　but　she　never　wears
  them。　If　the　glory　of　the　position　fascinates　you；　hear　me　now
  when　I　tell　you　that　its　pleasures　are　soon　at　an　end。　You　will
  suffer　when　you　find　so　many　asperities　in　a　nature　which；　from　a
  distance；　you　thought　equable；　and　such　coldness　at　the　shining
  summit。　Moreover；　as　women　never　set　their　feet　within　the　world
  of　real　difficulties；　they　cease　to　appreciate　what　they　once
  admired　as　soon　as　they　think　they　see　the　inner　mechanism　of　it。
  I　close　with　a　last　thought；　in　which　there　is　no　disguised
  entreaty；　it　is　the　counsel　of　a　friend。　The　exchange　of　souls　can
  take　place　only　between　persons　who　are　resolved　to　hide　nothing
  from　each　other。　Would　you　show　yourself　for　such　as　you　are　to　an
  unknown　man？　I　dare　not　follow　out　the　consequences　of　that　idea。
  Deign　to　accept；　mademoiselle；　the　homage　which　we　owe　to　all
  women；　even　those　who　are　disguised　and　masked。
  So　this　was　the　letter　she　had　worn　between　her　flesh　and　her　corset
  above　her　palpitating　heart　throughout　one　whole　day！　For　this　she　had
  postponed　the　reading　until　the　midnight　hour　when　the　household
  slept；　waiting　for　the　solemn　silence　with　the　eager　anxiety　of　an
  imagination　on　fire！　For　this　she　had　blessed　the　poet　by
  anticipation；　reading　a　thousand　letters　ere　she　opened　one；fancying
  all　things；　except　this　drop　of　cold　water　falling　upon　the　vaporous
  forms　of　her　illusion；　and　dissolving　them　as　prussic　acid　dissolves
  life。　What　could　she　do　but　hide　herself　in　her　bed；　blow　out　her
  candle；　bury　her　face　in　the　sheets　and　weep？
  All　this　happened　during　the　first　days　of　July。　But　Modeste　presently
  got　up；　walked　across　the　room　and　opened　the　window。　She　wanted　air。
  The　fragrance　of　the　flowers　came　to　her　with　the　peculiar　freshness
  of　the　odors　of　the　night。　The　sea；　lighted　by　the　moon；　sparkled　like
  a　mirror。　A　nightingale　was　singing　in　a　tree。　〃Ah；　there　is　the
  poet！〃　thought　Modeste；　whose　anger　subsided　at　once。　Bitter
  reflections　chased　each　other　through　her　mind。　She　was　cut　to　the
  quick；　she　wished　to　re