_Third Letter._ “_15th October 1864._ “MADAME,--Oh, thank you! thank you! I will wait. “My best wishes for the young couple and for you! “Dear lady, may this solemn time bring you ineffable joy. “Ah, how good you are! “Do not fear that my adoration will become unreasonable.--Your devoted HECTOR BERLIOZ.” After an impatient fortnight, I received the announcement of M. Charles F.’s marriage, addressed in his mother’s writing; which filled me with a joy that few can understand. I was in the seventh heaven, and wrote at once:-- “_28th October 1864._--Life is beautiful under certain aspects. I have received the notice addressed by you! A thought for the poor exile. May your good angel render fourfold the good you have done! Yes, life is beautiful, but how much more beautiful death. To be at your feet, my head upon your knee, your two hands clasped in mine, and so to end---- HECTOR BERLIOZ.” Days passed into weeks; Madame F. had gone to Geneva. Could she intend to withhold her address? To break her word? During that anxious time I believed I should write to her no more, and my heart despaired. But one morning, as I sat drearily musing beside the fire, a card was brought to me:-- “M. ET MME CHARLES F----.” The son and his wife, and _she_ had sent them! Yet how greatly it upset me to find the young man the living image of his mother at eighteen. The bride seemed quite bewildered at my emotion, although her husband was not; evidently he knew all; Madame F. had shown my letters. “How beautiful she must have been!” cried the young wife. “Oh!----” “Yes,” said M. F., “I remember even now how dazzled I was, at five years old, on seeing my mother dressed for a ball.” Gradually I subdued my feelings, and was able to talk sensibly to my visitors. Madame C. F. was a Dutch creole of Java, and knew Rajah Brooke of Sarawak. How much I should have had to ask her had I been in my usual state of mind. I saw them pleasantly often during their stay in Paris, and we talked of _her_. As we grew more friendly, the bride scolded me for writing as I had done. “You frighten her,” she said. “Remember she hardly knows you. You must learn to be calm, then your visits to Geneva will be delightful, and we shall be so happy to see you. You will come, will you not?” “Can you doubt it, if Madame F. gives me permission?” Schooling myself rigidly, I gave them no letter for their mother when they left; but, as my _Trojans_ was to be given, I sent her a copy of the poem, begging her to read the page I had marked with some dead leaves at half-past two on the 18th December, the time at which that passage would be played in Paris. Madame C. F. was to be back in Paris then, and hoped to be present at this concert, which was making some stir in the musical world.