To be brief, he has convinced me, that the letter written in his name, to the landlady, was a FORGERY of her own. The circumventing wretch! I am of opinion, that it ought to be made a hanging matter. The following is an extract from his and my correspondence. After a most satisfactory disquisition on the various circumstances tending to prove the forgery, he writes thus: * * * * * 'I have begun twenty letters to you, and have torn them all. I write to you on my knees, and the paper is blistered with my tears; but I have dried it with my sighs. 'Sun, moon, and stars may rise and set as they will. I know not whether it be day, or whether it be night. 'When the girl came with your last note, the idea that your eyes had just been dwelling on her features, on her cap, ribbon, and apron, made her and them so interesting, so dear to me, that, though her features are snubbed, her cap tattered, her ribbon bottle-green (which I hate), and her apron dirty, I should certainly have taken her in my arms, if I had not been the most bashful of men. 'Though that note stung me to the heart, the words were hosts of angels to me, and the small paper the interminable regions of bliss. Any thing from you! 'How my heart beats, and my blood boils in my veins, when by chance our feet meet under the table. The diapason of my heart-strings vibrates to the touch. How often I call to mind the sweet reproof you once gave me at dinner, when I trod on your toe in a transport of passion. '"If you love me, tell me so," said you, smiling; "but do not hurt my foot." 'Another little incident is always recurring to me. As we parted from each other, the night before last, you held out your hand and said, "Good-night, my dear Montmorenci." It was the first time you had ever called me _dear_. The sound sank deep into my heart. I have repeated it a hundred times since, and when I went to bed, I said, good night, my dear Montmorenci. I recollected myself and laughed. The fatal kiss that I once dared to snatch from you has undone me for ever. The moisture on your lip was like a suppuration of rubies. O immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting moment!' BILLET FROM CHERUBINA. He who could be capable of the letter, could be capable of calling it a forgery. BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI. Misery with you, were better than happiness without you. BILLET FROM CHERUBINA. Hatred and certainty were better than love and suspicion. BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI. Love is heaven and heaven is love. BILLET FROM CHERUBINA. If heaven be love, I fear that heaven is not eternal. BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI. If my mind be kept in suspense, my body shall be suspended too. BILLET FROM CHERUBINA. Foolish youth! If my life be dear to thee, attempt not thine own. BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI. It were easier to kill myself than to fly from Cherubina. BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.