Every
      day, in the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and
      every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the
      everlasting “Not come home yet” of his footman. Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition
      little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a
      Parisian—had lately arrived from Paris—might she not suddenly
      return?—return before Talbot came back—and might she not be thus
      lost to me forever? The thought was too terrible to bear. Since
      my future happiness was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly
      decision. In a word, upon the breaking up of the play, I traced
      the lady to her residence, noted the address, and the next
      morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in which I poured
      out my whole heart. I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I spoke with passion. I
      concealed nothing—nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the
      romantic circumstances of our first meeting—even to the glances
      which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt
      assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own
      intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise
      unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she
      might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a
      formal introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic
      epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly
      circumstances—of my affluence—and with an offer of my heart and
      of my hand. In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed
      the lapse of a century it came. Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really
      received a letter from Madame Lalande—the beautiful, the wealthy,
      the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes—her magnificent eyes, had
      not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as she was
      she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason—the generous
      impulses of her nature—despising the conventional pruderies of
      the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She had not
      sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my letter
      unopened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her own
      exquisite fingers. It ran thus:

      “Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle
      tong of his contrée so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am
      arrive, and not yet ave do opportunité for to—l’étudier. “Vid dis apologie for the manière, I vill now say dat,
      hélas!—Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de
      more? Hélas! am I not ready speak de too moshe? “EUGENIE LALAND.”

      This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed,
      no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that
      have now escaped my memory. Still Talbot _would_ not return. Alas! could he have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering
      his absence had occasioned his friend, would not his sympathizing
      nature have flown immediately to my relief? Still, however, he
      came _not_. I wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent
      business—but would shortly return. He begged me not to be
      impatient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to
      drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations of
      philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself,
      why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have
      enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him again,
      entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned
      by _that_ footman, with the following endorsement in pencil. The
      scoundrel had joined his master in the country:

      “Left S—— yesterday, for parts unknown—did not say where—or when
      be back—so thought best to return letter, knowing your
      handwriting, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry. “Yours sincerely,

      “STUBBS.”

      After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal
      deities both master and valet:—but there was little use in anger,
      and no consolation at all in complaint. But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity. Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it
      avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had
      passed between us, what act of mere informality could I commit,
      within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame
      Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the habit
      of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about twilight,
      it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in
      livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid
      the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet
      midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and accosted her. The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with
      the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a
      presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and,
      to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The
      valet at once fell into the rear, and now, with hearts full to
      overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love. As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote
      it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet
      tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous
      enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the eloquence I could
      command, besought her to consent to an immediate marriage. At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of
      decorum—that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the
      opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudently
      made it known among my friends, she observed, that I desired her
      acquaintance—thus that I did not possess it—thus, again, there
      was no possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge
      of each other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the
      extreme recency of this date. To wed immediately would be
      improper—would be indecorous—would be outre. All this she said
      with a charming air of naivete which enraptured while it grieved
      and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,
      laughingly, of rashness—of imprudence. She bade me remember that
      I really even knew not who she was—what were her prospects, her
      connections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a
      sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an
      infatuation—a will o’ the wisp—a fancy or fantasy of the moment—a
      baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of
      the heart.