She admitted me to her presence on a very familiar footing. One evening I called to see her, when she was dressing for a grand supper, and the servant ushered me into her boudoir. She was one bright blaze of jewels and beauty. The dressing-maid was giving the last caressing touches to her hair. She was scrutinizing the work in a metallic mirror with an ivory handle, which she held like a fan. “Come! my Judean!” she said, casting upon me one of her most bewitching glances—“come and put this ring into my ear.” This captivating service I rendered with trembling hands and palpitating heart. The dressing-maid smiled at my awkwardness and trepidation. Helena never looked more resplendent. I felt helplessly bound to the chariot-wheels of her destiny. The waiting-girl left the room, and falling at the feet of the unimpassioned beauty, I stammered forth my passion. “Helena! do you know that I love you?” She was contemplating her chin in the mirror, and replied without looking at me: “Of course you do. Everybody does.” “But, Helena! I cannot live without loving you.” “That is charming. Love me then and live.” “Helena!” said I, sternly, “you mock me. You allure me as if I were a man; and then you treat me as if I were a boy. You invite me; you evade me; you tantalize me. Can you not love me?” “Let me see,” said she, looking up at the Judgment of Paris beautifully frescoed on the ceiling; “let me see: I love wisdom, riches, power and glory. When you are wise as Socrates, rich as Crœsus, eloquent as Cicero, and powerful as Cæsar, I will love you and give myself to you.” “Your combination is impossible,” said I, proudly, biting my lip with failing heart and unconcealed vexation. Her face suddenly became radiant with a yielding, tender and beautiful expression, and I added:— “But if it existed, Helena, you would be worthy of it.” “To love such as yours,” she said, sweetly, pressing my hands, “all things are possible. We have been dreaming in the boudoir; let us converse in the parlor.” She led the way and overwhelmed me with such civilities that I forgot the past which had wounded me, and had golden glimpses of that magical future which was to console and bless me. Such is the dream-land of love! My sisters continued to write the most glowing letters, full of piety and tender affection. Their rehearsal of miracles and parables, and of voices from heaven, their enthusiasm, their faith, their zeal, all fell as dull and cold upon my ear as the monotonous songs of an old nurse. [Illustration: Ornament] XII. _THE HALL OF APOLLO._ [Illustration: Initial]