Here is my confession, for I would not lose your esteem nor my own for all the treasures of earth.
I wished to know who you are.

I have just returned from Havre, where I saw Francoise Cochet, and followed her to Ingouville.

You are as beautiful as the woman of a poet's dream; but I do not know if you are Mademoiselle Vilquin concealed under Mademoiselle d'Herouville, or Mademoiselle d'Herouville hidden under Mademoiselle Vilquin.

Though all is fair in war, I blushed at such spying and stopped short in my inquiries.

You have roused my curiosity; forgive me for being somewhat of a woman; it is, I believe, the privilege of a poet.
Now that I have laid bare my heart and allowed you to read it, you will believe in the sincerity of what I am about to add.