The heart of the princess beat with joy as she recognised the writing of M. de Morville.
The letter was couched in these terms:—
"This is the sixth time I have written to my mysterious friend, whose consolations are so sweet and precious to me, and come so opportunely and gratefully to support me in the sadness into which an unhappy affection plunges me, that I hardly know how adequately to thank the tender interest thus developed. There is for me a singular charm in confidences so vague, and yet so exact, made to an unknown individual, who appreciates the state of my heart with such infinite delicacy. I have been struck with what you tell me as to the happiness of loving even without hope, even as one loves God for God's sake, and of finding in the sole devotion to the adored object a pure and unutterable felicity. Your thoughts on the subject are in all cases so like my own, and that even in their most incomprehensible shadowings, that, by dint of being astonished at them, there has occurred to me an idea, which is foolish, impossible, mad. That idea is that——But no, I dare not even write it to you, at least not before I have avowed to you another of my beliefs. I am firmly convinced, that two persons passionately enamoured of each other must have, as respects love, certain ideas absolutely similar; thus, in consequence of all my ridiculous imaginings, I am weak enough to conclude that you may be the woman I love so hopelessly, and who at a ball at the Opera said to me these words,—Faust and Childe Harold. That evening will never be banished from my memory."
As she read this passage, Madame de Hansfeld trembled and blushed deeply with surprise, delight, and confusion; and then continued reading with a palpitating heart:—
"Pardon me this absurd hope; if I am wrong, these words will be to you quite incomprehensible, if I am not deceived, it may yet suit you to agree that I have not guessed, and then you will reply to me that I am in error, and our correspondence will continue as it has done.
"Now by what presentiment—by what instinct have I been led to believe that these letters were written to me by you? I know not. Doubtless the presence of the beloved one manifests itself in all things and every where, even despite mystery apparently the most impenetrable. If we distinguish amongst a thousand voices the one adored, why should we not similarly recognise the mind, the thought of the woman we love? If I am not mistaken, this phenomenon is more easily explicable by the sincerity, than by the sagacity, of my love. Then, I implore you do not refuse me the only consolation which remains to me. I was nearly writing—to us. Think what happiness we might then anticipate from our correspondence, and, also, what absolute, blind confidence my singular discovery must give us both! Would it not say as much in favour of your love as of mine? You have not written me a word by which I could detect you, and yet I have discovered you. Oh! I beseech you reply to me! Yes, we may be still happy in spite of the insurmountable barrier which separates us. Believing I was not beloved by you, I have carefully avoided you, in the fear of still more increasing the chagrins of a passion already so unhappy; but if you participate it, why refuse me the happiness of frequently meeting you, though we remain in the eyes of the world strangers to each other? I have sworn not to cease to love you, that would be impossible; but I have sworn, even if you should reciprocate my love, never to attempt to urge you beyond the sacred bounds of your duties, and never to visit at your abode. Remaining faithful, as I would, to this oath, where should we do wrong? what should we have to fear? Are you not as much bound by your love as I am by my word,—a word from which I shall never be released until the day when I may aspire to your hand?
"But why enter on such details, if my heart has deceived me, if you are not you? One other word, if I have rightly guessed, I swear to you, on my honour, no one in the world has breathed a syllable to me which could make me suspect that it was you who wrote to me: this discovery is one of those miracles of love which are deemed impossible only by the impious and atheistical.
"L. de M."
After she had concluded this letter, Paula was, if we may use the expression, overwhelmed. This amazing proof of divination in love perplexed and delighted her at the same time. Must not that love be, indeed, surpassing in order to arrive at such a pitch of penetration?
Madame de Hansfeld justly believed De Morville incapable of a falsehood, and therefore gave herself up in all secure reliance to the intoxication of this letter, which she read many times with intense delight.