the inner nature which history presents. Above all, it confirms the theory of many shrewd observers of human nature, that it is women after all who alone understand men, for it is they who alone see them as they really are.
I will give some specimens of these letters. It will be seen that I in no way exaggerate their character.
At Chanceaux, on his way to Italy, he has to stop to exchange horses; he takes advantage of the pause to write a letter.
"Every instant," he writes, "takes me farther from you, adorable creature, and every instant I feel less that I can bear being separated from you. You are perpetually in my thoughts; I rack my brains to imagine what you are about. If I think you are sad, my heart feels broken; if I fancy you gay, laughing with your friends, I reproach you for having forgotten our grievous separation of three days ago.
"If I am asked whether I have slept well, I feel that, before answering, I ought to receive news from you as to whether you have had a good night. Sickness, man's fury, affect me not, except by the idea that they may come upon you. . . . Ah! be not gay, but rather somewhat melancholy, and, above all, may your soul be exempt from grief as your body from illness."
