Since Marguerite had declared her love, a love so long and sadly struggled against by every souvenir of her past happiness, my incurable distrust had succumbed, at least for the time being, to the most intoxicating proofs of her affection.
There never were happier or more beautiful days than those that followed this avowal.
Almost every evening, on returning home, I had written in my journal a memento of these charming days.
Therefore it is with tender and respectful emotion that in writing this memoir I transcribe these fragments which were written during one of the most delightful periods of my life.
I
APRIL, 18—.
I have been fortunate enough to-day to spare Marguerite a moment's annoyance, but poor Candid is dead.
I have just seen him die. Brave, noble horse! I loved him well!
George does not weep for him, he is in a stupid despair; he said to me in English, with a horrified look as he pointed to the expiring beast: "Ah, monsieur, to die like that! and never to have run against any one, never to have run a race!"
Poor Candid! his end was peaceful, he went down on his knees, then he fell over, two or three times he raised his noble head and opened his great bright eyes,—then he half closed them, gave a sigh, and was dead.