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of the hand which one day you offered to your Spanish master。 I am
but your servitor； Louise； I claim no more。
〃No； I dare not think that I could ever be loved； but perchance my
devotion may win for me toleration。 Since that morning when you
smiled upon me with generous girlish impulse； divining the misery
of my lonely and rejected heart； you reign there alone。 You are
the absolute ruler of my life； the queen of my thoughts； the god
of my heart； I find you in the sunshine of my home； the fragrance
of my flowers； the balm of the air I breathe； the pulsing of my
blood； the light that visits me in sleep。
〃One thought alone troubled this happinessyour ignorance。 All
unknown to you was this boundless devotion； the trusty arm； the
blind slave； the silent tool； the wealthfor henceforth all I
possess is mine only as a trustwhich lay at your disposal；
unknown to you； the heart waiting to receive your confidence； and
yearning to replace all that your life （I know it well） has lacked
the liberal ancestress； so ready to meet your needs； a father to
whom you could look for protection in every difficulty； a friend；
a brother。 The secret of your isolation is no secret to me！ If I
am bold； it is because I long that you should know how much is
yours。
〃Take all； Louise； and is so doing bestow on me the one life
possible for me in this worldthe life of devotion。 In placing
the yoke on my neck； you run no risk； I ask nothing but the joy of
knowing myself yours。 Needless even to say you will never love me；
it cannot be otherwise。 I must love you from afar； without hope；
without reward beyond my own love。
〃In my anxiety to know whether you will accept me as your servant；
I have racked my brain to find some way in which you may
communicate with me without any danger of compromising yourself。
Injury to your self…respect there can be none in sanctioning a
devotion which has been yours for many days without your
knowledge。 Let this； then； be the token。 At the opera this
evening； if you carry in your hand a bouquet consisting of one red
and one white camelliaemblem of a man's blood at the service of
the purity he worshipsthat will be my answer。 I ask no more；
thenceforth； at any moment； ten years hence or to…morrow； whatever
you demand shall be done； so far as it is possible for man to do
it； by your happy servant；
〃FELIPE HENAREZ。〃
/P。 S。/You must admit； dear； that great lords know how to love！ See
the spring of the African lion！ What restrained fire！ What loyalty！
What sincerity！ How high a soul in low estate！ I felt quite small and
dazed as I said to myself； 〃What shall I do？〃
It is the mark of a great man that he puts to flight all ordinary
calculations。 He is at once sublime and touching； childlike and of the
race of giants。 In a single letter Henarez has outstripped volumes
from Lovelace or Saint…Preux。 Here is true love； no beating about the
bush。 Love may be or it may not； but where it is； it ought to reveal
itself in its immensity。
Here am I； shorn of all my little arts！ To refuse or accept！ That is
the alternative boldly presented me； without the ghost of an opening
for a middle course。 No fencing allowed！ This is no longer Paris； we
are in the heart of Spain or the far East。 It is the voice of
Abencerrage； and it is the scimitar； the horse； and the head of
Abencerrage which he offers； prostrate before a Catholic Eve！ Shall I
accept this last descendant of the Moors？ Read again and again his
Hispano…Saracenic letter； Renee dear； and you will see how love makes
a clean sweep of all the Judaic bargains of your philosophy。
Renee； your letter lies heavy on my heart； you have vulgarized life
for me。 What need have I for finessing？ Am I not mistress for all time
of this lion whose roar dies out in plaintive and adoring sighs？ Ah！
how he must have raged in his lair of the Rue Hillerin…Bertin！ I know
where he lives； I have his card： /F。； Baron de Macumer/。
He has made it impossible for me to reply。 All I can do is to fling
two camellias in his face。 What fiendish arts does love possesspure；
honest； simple…minded love！ Here is the most tremendous crisis of a
woman's heart resolved into an easy； simple action。 Oh； Asia！ I have
read the /Arabian Nights/； here is their very essence： two flowers；
and the question is settled。 We clear the fourteen volumes of
/Clarissa Harlowe/ with a bouquet。 I writhe before this letter； like a
thread in the fire。 To take； or not to take； my two camellias。 Yes or
No； kill or give life！ At last a voice cries to me； 〃Test him！〃 And I
will test him。
XVI
THE SAME TO THE SAME
March。
I am dressed in whitewhite camellias in my hair； and another in my
hand。 My mother has red camellias； so it would not be impossible to
take one from herif I wished！ I have a strange longing to put off
the decision to the last moment； and make him pay for his red camellia
by a little suspense。
What a vision of beauty！ Griffith begged me to stop for a little and
be admired。 The solemn crisis of the evening and the drama of my
secret reply have given me a color； on each cheek I sport a red
camellia laid upon a white！
1 A。 M。
Everybody admired me； but only one adored。 He hung his head as I
entered with a white camellia； but turned pale as the flower when；
later； I took a red one from my mother's hand。 To arrive with the two
flowers might possibly have been accidental； but this deliberate
action was a reply。 My confession； therefore； is fuller than it need
have been。
The opera was /Romeo and Juliet/。 As you don't know the duet of the
two lovers； you can't understand the bliss of two neophytes in love；
as they listen to this divine outpouring of the heart。
On returning home I went to bed； but only to count the steps which
resounded on the sidewalk。 My heart and head； darling； are all on fire
now。 What is he doing？ What is he thinking of？ Has he a thought； a
single thought； that is not of me？ Is he； in very truth； the devoted
slave he painted himself？ How to be sure？ Or； again； has it ever
entered his head that； if I accept him； I lay myself open to the
shadow of a reproach or am in any sense rewarding or thanking him？ I
am harrowed by the hair…splitting casuistry of the heroines in /Cyrus/
and /Astraea/； by all the subtle arguments of the court of love。
Has he any idea that； in affairs of love； a woman's most trifling
actions are but the issue of long brooding and inner conflicts； of
victories won only to be lost！ What are his thoughts at this moment？
How can I give him my orders to write every evening the particulars of
the day just gone？ He is my slave whom I ought to keep busy。 I shall
deluge him with work！
Sunday Morning。
Only towards morning did I sleep a little。 It is midday now。 I have
just got Griffith to write the following letter：
〃/To the Baron de Macumer/。
〃Mademoiselle de Chaulieu begs me； Monsieur le Baron； to ask you
to return to her the copy of a letter written to her by a friend；
which is in her own handwriting； and which you carried away。
Believe me； etc。；
〃GRIFFITH。〃
My dear； Griffith has