He divined only too well the impression
he had made upon my heart. I met him twice afterward in society.
He did not speak to me; he even pretended to avoid me, but
standing a little on one side, he watched my every movement with
burning eyes in which I fancied I could read a passion as
absorbing as my own. At last he ventured to write to me. The
moment a letter addressed to me in an unknown hand was covertly
handed me by my maid, I divined that it came from him. I was
frightened, and my first impulse was to take it, not to my mother--
whom I regarded as my natural enemy--but to my father. However,
he chanced to be absent; I kept the letter, I read it, I answered
it--and he wrote again.
"Alas! from that moment my conduct was inexcusable. I knew that
it was worse than a fault to continue this clandestine
correspondence. I knew my parents would never give my hand in
marriage to a man who was not of noble birth. I knew that I was
risking my reputation, the spotless honor of our house, my
happiness, and life! Still I persisted--I was possessed with a
strange madness that made me ready to brave every danger.
Besides, he gave me no time to breathe, or reflect. Everywhere,
constantly, every instant, he compelled me to think of him. By
some miracle of address and audacity, he had discovered a means of
intruding upon my presence, even in my father's house.
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