"Now by what presentiment--by what instinct have I been led to believe that these letters were written to me by you? I know not. Doubtless the presence of the beloved one manifests itself in all things and every where, even despite mystery apparently the most impenetrable. If we distinguish amongst a thousand voices the one adored, why should we not similarly recognise the mind, the thought of the woman we love? If I am not mistaken, this phenomenon is more easily explicable by the sincerity, than by the sagacity, of my love. Then, I implore you do not refuse me the only consolation which remains to _me_. I was nearly writing--_to us_. Think what happiness we might then anticipate from our correspondence, and, also, what absolute, blind confidence my singular discovery must give us both! Would it not say as much in favour of your love as of mine? You have not written me a word by which I could detect you, and yet I have discovered you. Oh! I beseech you reply to me! Yes, we may be still happy in spite of the insurmountable barrier which separates us. Believing I was not beloved by you, I have carefully avoided you, in the fear of still more increasing the chagrins of a passion already so unhappy; but if you participate it, why refuse me the happiness of frequently meeting you, though we remain in the eyes of the world strangers to each other? I have sworn not to cease to love you, that would be impossible; but I have sworn, even if you should reciprocate my love, never to attempt to urge you beyond the sacred bounds of your duties, and never to visit at your abode. Remaining faithful, as I would, to this oath, where should we do wrong? what should we have to fear? Are you not as much bound by your love as I am by my word,--a word from which I shall never be released until the day when _I may aspire to your hand?_ "But why enter on such details, if my heart has deceived me, if you are not you? One other word, if I have rightly guessed, I swear to you, on my honour, no one in the world has breathed a syllable to me which could make me suspect that it was you who wrote to me: this discovery is one of those miracles of love which are deemed impossible only by the impious and atheistical. "L. de M." After she had concluded this letter, Paula was, if we may use the expression, overwhelmed. This amazing proof of divination in love perplexed and delighted her at the same time. Must not that love be, indeed, surpassing in order to arrive at such a pitch of penetration? Madame de Hansfeld justly believed De Morville incapable of a falsehood, and therefore gave herself up in all secure reliance to the intoxication of this letter, which she read many times with intense delight. The princess involuntarily felt a shudder at the passage in which M. de Morville said so frankly, that he should be released from his oath when she became a widow.