Very rarely in life do we receive letters that we expect; we always receive those that we don't expect. The expected ones inform us of what we already know; the unexpected ones tell us of things entirely new. A philosopher prefers the latter--of which I now send you one. I passed some hours at Richeport with you and Edgar, and there I made a discovery that you must have made before me, and a reflection that you will make after me. I am sixty years old in my feelings--travel ages one more than anything else--you are twenty-five, according to your baptismal register. How fortunate you are to have some one able to give you advice! How unfortunate I am that my experience has been sad enough to enable me to be that one to give it! But I have a vague presentiment that my advice will bring you happiness, if followed. We should never neglect a presentiment. Every man carries in him a spark of Heaven's intelligence--it is often the torch that illumines the darkness of our future. This is called presentiment. Read attentively, and do not disturb yourself about the end. I must first explain by what means of observation I made my discovery. Then the dénoûement will appear in its proper place, which is not at the beginning. The following is what I saw at the Château de Richeport. You did not see it, because you were an actor. I was merely a spectator, and had that advantage over you. You, Edgar, and myself were in the parlor at noon. It is the hour in the country when one takes shelter behind closed blinds to enjoy a friendly chat. One is always sad, dreamy, meditative at this hour of a lovely summer-day, and can speak carelessly of indifferent things, and at the same time have every thought concentrated upon one beloved object. These are the mysteries of the _Démon de Midi_, so much dreaded by the poet-king. There was in one corner of the room a little rosewood-table, so frail that it could be crushed by the weight of a man's hand. On this table was a piece of embroidery and a crystal vase filled with flowers. Suspended over this table was a copy of Camille Roqueplan's picture: "_The Lion in Love_." In the recess near the window was a piano open, and evidently just abandoned by a woman; the little stool was half-overturned by catching in the dress of some one suddenly rising, and the music open was a soprano air from _Puritani_:-- "Vien diletto, in ciel e luna, Tutto tace intorno...."