paw. I felt the fire of his lips, tempered by two big tears. Oh! my
love, I lay in my armchair, nerveless, dreamy. I was happy, and I
cannot explain to you how or why. What I felt only a poet could
express. My condescension, which fills me with shame now, seemed to me
then something to be proud of; he had fascinated me, that is my one
excuse.

Friday.

This man is really very handsome. He talks admirably, and has
remarkable intellectual power. My dear, he is a very Bossuet in force
and persuasiveness when he explains the mechanism, not only of the
Spanish tongue, but also of human thought and of all language. His
mother tongue seems to be French. When I expressed surprise at this,
he replied that he came to France when quite a boy, following the King
of Spain to Valencay.

What has passed within this enigmatic being? He is no longer the same
man. He came, dressed quite simply, but just as any gentleman would
for a morning walk. He put forth all his eloquence, and flashed wit,
like rays from a beacon, all through the lesson. Like a man roused
from lethargy, he revealed to me a new world of thoughts. He told me
the story of some poor devil of a valet who gave up his life for a
single glance from a queen of Spain.

"What could he do but die?" I exclaimed.

This delighted him, and he looked at me in a way which was truly
alarming.