After breakfast he left, and Madame d’Ionis appointed a meeting with me, at one o’clock, in the library. I was there at noon; but she sent me word by Zéphyrine that she was besieged by importunate visitors and that I must have patience. This was easier to ask than acquire. I waited; the minutes seemed centuries. I asked myself how I had managed to exist up to this time, without this _tête-à-tête_ that I already called _daily_, and how I could go on living when there would be no further occasion to expect it. I sought for some means that should entail the necessity, and resolved at last to protract the law suit, to the extent of my poor abilities, and I puzzled my brains over a thousand subterfuges which did not even possess the merit of common sense. While walking up and down the gallery, in my agitation, I every now and then stopped before the fountain and sometimes seated myself upon its brink, that was surrounded by magnificent flowers, artistically disposed in the crevices of the rough rock on top of which rested a block of white marble. This rugged base gave a more finished effect to the work of the chisel causing the water to overflow in brilliant sheets into the lower receptacles, which were adorned with aquatic plants. It was a delicious spot, and the reflection of the stained glass occasionally imparted an appearance of life to the fantastical features of the statuary. I regarded the naiad with renewed wonder, surprised to find it so beautiful and realizing at last the exalted sense of this mysterious loveliness which I no longer thought of comparing unfavorably with that of Madame d’Ionis. I felt that all comparisons are puerile between inanimate objects and beings that bear no resemblance to each other. This inspiration of Jean Goujon’s had a beauty peculiar to itself—the face wore an expression of sublime sweetness—and seemed to communicate a feeling of repose and happiness to the mind, like the sensation of freshness imparted by the continuous murmur of the limpid waters of the fountain. At last Madame d’Ionis made her appearance. “Here is some news,” said she, seating herself familiarly near me; “look at this strange letter that I have just received from M. d’Ionis.” And she showed it to me with an _abandon_ that affected me strongly. I was disgusted with a husband whose letters to such a wife could be shown without embarrassment to the first comer. The letter was cold, long and diffuse, the characters slender and tremulous, the orthography very doubtful. Here is the substance of it: