own. He says innumerable tender things, in which his ardour is anything but cynical. Here is an allusion to a Spanish greeting with which she had begun a letter: "I wish I had seen you when you were writing amigo de mi alma. When you have your portrait taken for me, say that to yourself, instead of 'petite pomme d'api,' as the ladies say who wish to make their mouths look pretty." The nearest approach in the book to the stuff that love letters are generally made of is an allusion to the pains of the tender passion. "Several times it has come into my head not to answer you and to see you no more. This is very reasonable and a great deal can be said for it. The execution is more difficult."
Gradually, however, sentiment of the tenderer sort disappears—but by absorption, as one may say, and not by evanescence. After a correspondence of ten years the writer's devotion may be taken for granted. His letters become an irremissible habit, an intellectual need, a receptacle for his running commentary on life. The second volume of the "Lettres à une Inconnue" contains less that is personal to the lady, and more allusions to other people and things, more anecdotes and promiscuous reflections. Mérimée became more and more a man of the world. He was member of two Academies, inspector and conservator of national monuments (a very active post, apparently), a senator of the Empire and an
