already noticed my depression, my gloomy taciturnity, several times; but he has supplicated me in vain to confide to him the cause of my melancholy grief. I should not dare it, notwithstanding his blind tenderness for me; you know his severity as regards everything which appears to him wanting in frankness and loyalty. Yesterday, I watched with him; when alone by his side, believing him asleep, I could not restrain my tears, which flowed in silence as I thought of my happy days at Gerolstein. He saw me weep, for he soon awaked while I was absorbed in my grief; he questioned me with the most touching kindness; I attributed my sadness to the anxiety that his health had caused me, but he was not deceived by this evasion. Now that you know all, my good Maximilian, say is not my fate forlorn enough! What shall I do--what resolve? Ah, my friend, I cannot tell you my anguish. What is to happen, my God! All is utterably lost! I am the most wretched of men if my father does not renounce his project. I will tell you what has just happened; just now I had finished this letter, when, to my great astonishment, my father, whom I believed in bed, entered my cabinet, where I was writing to you; he saw upon my desk my first four great pages all filled; I was at the end of this last--" "To whom do you write so at length?" he asked, smiling. "To Maximilian, father." "Oh!" said he to me, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "I know that he possessed your confidence entirely; _he is very happy--he!_" He pronounced these last words so sadly, in such a bounded tone, that, touched by his accent, I replied to him, giving him my letter, almost without reflection: "Read, father." My friend, he has read all. Do you know what he said to me, after remaining for some time thoughtful? "Henry, I am going to write to the grand duke all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein." "My father, I conjure you, do not do it." "Is what you relate to Maximilian perfectly true?" "Yes, my father." "In this case, until now your conduct has been upright. The prince will appreciate it. But in future you should not show yourself unworthy of his noble confidence; you would do so if, abusing his offer, you should return hereafter to Gerolstein, with the intention, perhaps, of making yourself beloved by his daughter." "My father, could you think----" "I think that you love with passion, and that passion is, sooner or later, an evil consoler." "How, my father? you will write to the prince that----" "'You love your cousin desperately.'" "In the name of heaven, my father, I supplicate you, do nothing of this!" "Do you love your cousin?" "I love her to idolatry; but----" My father interrupted me: "If this is the case, I shall write to the grand duke to demand of him for you the hand of his daughter." "But, my father, such a claim is madness for me!"