even more."

"Do you think so, Montalais?"

"Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne
last year! No, no, I mistake - the sea is perfidious: your eyes are as
deep as the azure yonder - look! - over our heads!"

"Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I am thinking
about, Montalais."

"In the first place, you don't think, _Monsieur Raoul_; you think, _My
dear Raoul_."

"Oh! - "

"Never blush for such a trifle as that! 'My dear Raoul,' we will say -
'You implore me to write you at Paris, where you are detained by your
attendance on M. le Prince. As you must be very dull there, to seek for
amusement in the remembrance of a _provinciale_ - '"

Louise rose up suddenly. "No, Montalais," said she, with a smile; "I
don't think a word of that. Look, this is what I think;" and she seized
the pen boldly, and traced, with a firm hand, the following words:

"I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a
remembrance of me had been less warm. Everything here reminds me of our
early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew by,
that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart."