“Madame,—I have just come from Meylan, from my second pilgrimage to the hallowed haunts of my childhood’s dreams. It has been even more painful than that of sixteen years ago, after which I wrote to you at Vif. This time I ask for more; I dare to beg you to see me. I can control myself; you need fear no transports from a heart out-worn and crushed by the pressure of cruel Fate. Give me but a few moments! Let me see you, I implore.
“23rd September 1864. Hector Berlioz.”
I could not wait till noon. At half-past eleven I rang; gave her maid my card and the letter. She was at home. I ought only to have sent up the letter, but I was past knowing what I was doing. Without hesitation she came to meet me. I at once recognised her graceful yet stately air—the step of a goddess. But, ah! how changed her face! Her complexion darkened, her hair silvered.
Yet my heart went out to my idol as though she had been in all the freshness of her youthful beauty.
Holding my note, she led the way to her drawing-room. My emotions choked me, I was dumb; with gentle dignity she began:
“We are old acquaintances, M. Berlioz——” Silence.
“We were but children then——” Still silence.
Feeble as the cry of a drowning man came my halting voice:
“My letter—madame—explains this visit; would you but read it——”