All the
yearnings of my own nature, all the romance of my fiery youth, I poured
out in this appeal to a siren whom I had never seen, and whose name I
did not know. I was distraught, pathetic, humorous, and sublime by
turns. Subtle gleams of wit flashed artistically across the lurid
landscape of despair. I reminded her of scenes of happiness--vaguely,
because I had no details to elaborate; the reminiscences, however, were
so touching that I came near to believing in them. Mindful of her
solitary blemish, I referred to 'embarrassments now almost at an end';
and so profoundly did I affect myself, that while I wrote that I was
weeping, it was really true. Well, when I saw the gentleman again he
embraced me like a brother. 'Your letter was a masterpiece,' he told
me; 'it has done the trick!'
"Mademoiselle, I do not wish to say who he was, and as you have known
many celebrities, and had many love-letters, you may not guess. But the
woman was you! And if I had been a better business man, I should have
written less movingly, for I recognised, even during my inspiration,
that it was against my interests to reunite him to you. I was an
artist; I thrilled your heart, I restored you to his arms--and you had
the two thousand five hundred and forty-three francs that would
otherwise have come to me! Never could I extract another sou from him!"
As Tricotrin concluded his painful history, mademoiselle Blondette
seemed so much amused that he feared she had entirely missed its
pathos.
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