Poor Ferdinand! The struggle for existence was rapidly wearing him out. The want of almost every necessary of life, the constant recourse to a morsel of bread, or a little rice, and a few potatoes, for daily food, coupled with the perpetual tension of the brain, required to secure even these, miserable as they were—all this was doing its deadly work, and M. de Candolles’ health was visibly failing every day. One evening, this was so plain to all eyes that, at Madame de Guesvillers’ house, many good-natured persons told Ferdinand he really must take care, or they should hear of his going off in a galloping consumption. An hour or two later, some one opened a window behind where he was standing— “Do not remain where you are—_pray_!” said a voice beside him. It was timidly yet earnestly said—the sweet voice was unsteady, and there was such an expression in the last word, “_Pray!_” Ferdinand turned without answering: his eyes met Blanche de Vouvray’s—she looked down, but not before she had involuntarily replied to his passionate and melancholy glance. M. de Candolles soon left the room. His brain was on fire, and he rushed homeward like one possessed. Part of his prudence was gone. He snatched up pen and ink, and _wrote_—wrote to _her_! All that Ferdinand had never yet found, was found now—the hidden spring was reached, and the tide of eloquence gushed forth, strong, rapid, irresistible. Such a letter as few women have ever received was put, the next morning, into Mademoiselle de Vouvray’s hands. The first effect of it was electrical—she became confused, and like one in a dream; but, almost as soon, the feminine instinct awoke, and involuntarily she admitted that _her end was gained—he had spoken at last_! What lay beyond was uncertain—might be dangerous, and had best be altogether set aside. She would avoid M. de Candolles in future. This was not so easy: that very night she met him in the vestibule of the _Grand Opera_, with little, old Madame de Guesvillers on his arm. He bowed to, but did not look at her; was cold, silent and reserved, and really did seem as though he had one foot in the tomb. He would, perhaps, not live another year—that was a shocking thought—and Blanche shivered as she rolled over the _Pont Royal_ in her comfortable carriage. There could be no harm in answering his letter from a certain point of view she now adopted, and accordingly she did answer it, and a very virtuous, and consoling, and amiable composition her answer was. From this moment the possibility of writing tempted both; and, from time to time, they availed themselves of it, though it never degenerated into a habit. Ferdinand’s pecuniary resources growing less and less with every day, he literally _starved_ himself, in order to cover the extravagance of his _heart-expenses_. For a bouquet dropped in at her carriage-window, as she drove from the _Italiens_—for a perfume to put upon his own handkerchief, that she