About two o'clock next day my father summoned me to his private room, where I found the Duchess and Macumer. There was an interchange of civilities. I replied quite simply that if my father and M. Henarez were of one mind, I had no reason to oppose their wishes. Thereupon my mother invited the Baron to dinner; and after dinner, we all four went for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne, where I had the pleasure of smiling ironically to M. de Marsay as he passed on horseback and caught sight of Macumer sitting opposite to us beside my father. My bewitching Felipe has had his cards reprinted as follows: HENAREZ (Baron de Macumer, formerly Duc de Soria.) Every morning he brings me with his own hands a splendid bouquet, hidden in which I never fail to find a letter, containing a Spanish sonnet in my honor, which he has composed during the night. Not to make this letter inordinately large, I send you as specimens only the first and last of these sonnets, which I have translated for your benefit, word for word, and line for line:-- FIRST SONNET Many a time I've stood, clad in thin silken vest, Drawn sword in hand, with steady pulse, Waiting the charge of a raging bull, And the thrust of his horn, sharper-pointed than Phoebe's crescent. I've scaled, on my lips the lilt of an Andalusian dance, The steep redoubt under a rain of fire; I've staked my life upon a hazard of the dice Careless, as though it were a gold doubloon. My hand would seek the ball out of the cannon's mouth, But now meseems I grow more timid than a crouching hair, Or a child spying some ghost in the curtain's folds. For when your sweet eye rests on me, Any icy sweat covers my brow, my knees give way, I tremble, shrink, my courage gone. SECOND SONNET Last night I fain would sleep to dream of thee, But jealous sleep fled my eyelids, I sought the balcony and looked towards heaven, Always my glance flies upward when I think of thee. Strange sight! whose meaning love alone can tell, The sky had lost its sapphire hue, The stars, dulled diamonds in their golden mount, Twinkled no more nor shed their warmth. The moon, washed of her silver radiance lily-white, Hung mourning over the gloomy plain, for thou hast robbed The heavens of all that made them bright. The snowy sparkle of the moon is on thy lovely brow, Heaven's azure centres in thine eyes, Thy lashes fall like starry rays. What more gracious way of saying to a young girl that she fills your life? Tell me what you think of this love, which expends itself in lavishing the treasures alike of the earth and of the soul. Only within the last ten days have I grasped the meaning of that Spanish gallantry, so famous in old days.