mind complicates everything; it works on itself, pictures its fancies,
turns them into reality and torment; and such jealousy is as
delightful as it is distressing."

A foreign minister smiled as, by the light of memory, he felt the
truth of this remark.

"Besides," de Marsay went on, "I said to myself, why miss a happy
hour? Was it not better to go, even though feverish? And, then, if she
learns that I am ill, I believe her capable of hurrying here and
compromising herself. I made an effort; I wrote a second letter, and
carried it myself, for my confidential servant was now gone. The river
lay between us. I had to cross Paris; but at last, within a suitable
distance of her house, I caught sight of a messenger; I charged him to
have the note sent up to her at once, and I had the happy idea of
driving past her door in a hackney cab to see whether she might not by
chance receive the two letters together. At the moment when I arrived
it was two o'clock; the great gate opened to admit a carriage. Whose?
--That of the stalking-horse!

"It is fifteen years since--well, even while I tell the tale, I, the
exhausted orator, the Minister dried up by the friction of public
business, I still feel a surging in my heart and the hot blood about
my diaphragm. At the end of an hour I passed once more; the carriage
was still in the courtyard! My note no doubt was in the porter's
hands. At last, at half-past three, the carriage drove out. I could
observe my rival's expression; he was grave, and did not smile; but he
was in love, and no doubt there was business in hand.

"I went to keep my appointment; the queen of my heart met me; I saw