A bunch of wild flowers, used as a model, had not had time to fade; an unfinished bouquet rested on the easel, as if awaiting the last touches of the pencil. Nothing betokened a final departure. One would have said that Louise might enter at any moment. A little black mitten lay upon a chair; I picked it up--and would have pressed it to my lips, if such an action had not been deplorably rococo. Then I threw myself into an old arm-chair, by the side of the bed--like Faust in Marguerite's room--lifting the curtains with as much precaution as if Louise reposed beneath. You are going to laugh at me, I know, dear Roger, but I assure you, I have never been able to gaze upon a young girl's bed without emotion. That little pillow, the sole confidant of timid dreams, that narrow couch, fitted like a tomb for but one alabaster form, inspired me with tender melancholy. No anacreontic thoughts came to me, I assure you, nor any disposition to rhyme in _ette_, herbette, filette, coudrette. The love I bear to noble poesy saved me from such an exhibition of bad taste. A crucifix, over which hung a piece of blessed box, spread its ivory arms above Louise's untroubled slumber. Such simple piety touched me. I dislike bigots, but I detest atheists. Musing there alone it flashed upon me that Louise Guérin had never been married, in spite of her assertion. I am disposed to doubt the existence of the late Albert Guérin. A sedate and austere atmosphere surrounds Louise, suggesting the convent or the boarding-school. I went into the garden; the sunbeams checkered the steps of the porch; the wilted iris drooped on its stem, and the acacia flowers strewed the pathway. Apropos of acacia flowers, do you know, that fried in batter, they make excellent fritters? Finding myself alone in the walks where I had strolled with her, I do not know how it happened, but I felt my heart swell, and I sighed like a young abbé of the 17th century. I returned to the château, having no excuse for remaining longer, vexed, disappointed, wearied, idle--the habit of seeing Louise every day had grown upon me. And habit is everything to poor humanity, as that graceful poet Alfred de Musset says. My feet only know the way to the post-office; what shall I do with myself while this visit lasts? I tried to read, but my attention wandered; I skipped the lines, and read the same paragraph over twice; my book having fallen down I picked it up and read it for one whole hour upside down, without knowing it--I wished to make a monosyllabic sonnet--extremely interesting occupation--and failed. My quatrains were tedious, and my tercets entirely too diffuse.