CHAPTER III.
THE MARQUIS DE MALOUET.
MALOUET, _20th September_.
I have just received your letter.

You belong to the true breed of Monomotapa friends, Paul.

But what puerility! And such is the case of your sudden return! A trifle, a silly nightmare which for two successive nights caused you to hear the sound of my voice calling on you for help! Ah! bitter fruits of the wretched German cuisine! Really, Paul, you are foolish! And yet, you tell me things that move me to tears.

I cannot answer you as I would like to.

My heart is tender, but my speech is dry.
I have never been able to tell any one, "I love you!" There is a jealous fiend who checks on my lips every word of affection, and imparts to it a tone of irony.