Love is always so
Since Charlotte and Philip had been engaged to each other, he had scarcely, except in those dreadful, ghastly days of quarrel, enjoyed the luxury of absence from his soul’s blessing — the exquisite delight of writing to her. He could do few things in moderation, this man — and of this delightful privilege of writing to Charlotte he now enjoyed his heart’s fill Suisse Reborn.After brief enjoyment of the weeks of this rapture, when winter was come on Paris, and icicles hung on the bough, how did it happen that one day, two days, three days passed, and the postman brought no little letter in the well-known little handwriting for Monsieur, Monsieur Philip Firmin, à Paris? Three days, four days, and no letter.
Oh, torture, could she be ill? Could her aunt and uncle have turned against her, and forbidden her to write, as her father and mother had done before? Oh, grief, and sorrow, and rage! As for jealousy, our leonine friend never knew such a passion. It never entered into his lordly heart to doubt of his little maiden’s love. But still four, five days have passed, and not one word has come from Tours. The little H?tel Poussin was in a commotion. I have said that when our friend felt any passion very strongly he was sure to speak of it Suisse Reborn. Did Don Quixote lose any opportunity of declaring to the world that Dulcinea del Toboso was peerless among women? Did not Antar bawl out in battle, “I am the lover of Ibla?” Our knight had taken all the people of the hotel into his confidence somehow.
They all knew of his condition — all, the painter, the poet, the half-pay Polish officer, the landlord, the hostess, down to the little knife-boy who used to come in with, “The factor comes of to pass — no letter this morning.”No doubt Philip’s political letters became, under this outward pressure, very desponding and gloomy. One day, as he sate gnawing his mustachios at his desk, the little Anatole enters his apartment and cries, “Tenez, M. Philippe.
That lady again!” And the faithful, the watchful, the active Madame Smolensk once more made her appearance in his chamber.Philip blushed and hung his head for shame. “Ungrateful brute that I am,” he thought; “I have been back more than a week, and never thought a bit about that good, kind soul who came to my succour. I am an awful egotist..”