Morning after morning was
spent in this way to mighty purpose; but with each day's walk, that
vision of a woman living apart from the world, of love's martyr buried
in solitude, loomed larger in his thoughts, and was enshrined in his
soul. So Gaston de Nueil walked under the walls of Courcelles, and
some gardener's heavy footstep would set his heart beating high with
hope.
He thought of writing to Mme. de Beauseant, but on mature
consideration, what can you say to a woman whom you have never seen, a
complete stranger? And Gaston had little self-confidence. Like most
young persons with a plentiful crop of illusions still standing, he
dreaded the mortifying contempt of silence more than death itself, and
shuddered at the thought of sending his first tender epistle forth to
face so many chances of being thrown on the fire. He was distracted by
innumerable conflicting ideas. But by dint of inventing chimeras,
weaving romances, and cudgeling his brains, he hit at last upon one of
the hopeful stratagems that are sure to occur to your mind if you
persevere long enough, a stratagem which must make clear to the most
inexperienced woman that here was a man who took a fervent interest in
her. The caprice of social conventions puts as many barriers between
lovers as any Oriental imagination can devise in the most delightfully
fantastic tale; indeed, the most extravagant pictures are seldom
exaggerations.
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