I should have delighted in what was to me an unpublished story, in the feeling of new birth into such supreme love as it is the privilege of few lives to know; but instead I plotted an infernal scheme of which, as I confess it to-day, after so long a time, I am still ashamed. My absolute power recognised no scruples. The persons with whom I associated habitually scoffed freely at conventionalities and all moral restraint, and treated virtue, honour, and respect for women as hypocrisy. I was willing to betray without remorse the confidence of the Mairieux. As for the complicity of the young girl in my scheme, I did not imagine that the whim of a multi-millionaire could encounter obduracy. Must she not, like her mother, be dying of ennui “in this desert”? I would awaken my sleeping beauty of the woods, and carry her off to Paris. What could be more natural? What more fine? My plan was laid. There only remained the simple task of securing Raymonde’s consent. I might obtain it by means of jewels as in Faust, or through the fascination of Paris as in Manon. The everlasting presence of her father prevented my paving the way, but I took advantage one day of a sufficiently useless forestry investigation with which I had purposely charged M. Mairieux, to propose to our Amazon that I should accompany her alone on her ride. I intended to seize the opportunity to open negotiations. Our conversation was of the shortest, and I shall record it faithfully: “Mlle. Raymonde,” I began, “would you not like to go to Paris?” “Of course,” she answered, “I should love it.” “With me? Would you consent if I asked you very nicely?” “Oh yes, with you. Because in the forest I can guide you, but in Paris you would be guide.” She laughed as she lowered her head to avoid a branch. I can see her now! “We’ll go as soon as possible,” I said. “To-night, if you wish to.” “To-night, then, I want to very much.” And again her laugh, the laugh of a little girl, rang clear in the alley. She touched her horse lightly with her riding whip and old Sultan went off at a gallop. As I urged on my horse to rejoin her, I was stupefied by the speed of my conquest. “Look at those little humbugs who are so reserved and discreet,” I thought. “At the first word of love they catch fire.” For the meaning of our departure, emphasized by the equivocal tone I had employed, was, I thought, very explicit. No one could possibly have been deceived by it. Then, as suddenly as she had started off, my companion and accomplice halted. “We must go home at once,” she said. “What for?” I asked. “Why, to let father and mother know we are going away.” I opened my eyes in astonishment, which she interpreted at once. “Let us go on,” she said, “I see clearly that it was only a joke. You were amusing yourself with my credulity. And besides;--” “And besides?” I repeated in my bewilderment. “I am like my father--I prefer the Sleeping Woods.”