'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.