LV.


Spite of my continual efforts and of the perpetual application of my
young and ardent imagination to communicate to my letters the fire that
consumed me, to create a language for my sighs, to pour my burning soul
upon the paper and make it overleap the distance that divided us,--in
this combat against the impotence of words, I was always surpassed by
Julie. Her letters had more expression in one phrase than mine in their
eight pages,--her heart breathed in the words; one saw her looks in the
lines; the expressions seemed still warm from her lips. In her, nothing
evaporated during that slow and dull transition of the feeling to the
word which lets the lava of the heart cool and pale beneath the pen of
man. Woman has no style, that is why all she says is so well said.
Style is a garment, but the unveiled soul stands forth upon the lips or
beneath the hand of woman. Like the Venus of speech, it rises from the
depths of feeling in its naked beauty, wakes of itself to life, wonders
at its own existence, and is adored ere it knows that it has spoken.




LVI.


What letters and what ardor! What tones and accents! What fire and