Two or three days after the events, or rather the scenes,
just related, any one who had chanced to enter Mr. Sansoucy's
office, would have found that gentleman leaning

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back in his chair, and contemplating with a most rueful
and unhappy visage, a diminutive note, the enamelled
envelope of which lay by him on his table.

The note which was in the most elegant and delicate
handwriting—evidently that of a lady, ran thus:

“Mr. Sansoucy will very much oblige me by releasing
me from my promise to accompany him to the opera to-night.
I feel as if I should not be able to enjoy it.

This was the missive which had fallen into Mr. Sansoucy's
sanctum like a bombshell; and bursting, scattered
in every direction the entire materials of his morning's
editorial.

The idea of writing anything after receiving this note,
did not even so much as occur to Mr. Sansoucy. He
seized a journal—eliminated a foreign letter—and informing
the patrons of the Weekly Mammoth, that the letter in
question was from Vienna, which was certainly apparent
already, recommended them to read it, and reflect profoundly
upon it. Having thus fulfilled his obligation as a
journalist, he handed the package to the printer's boy in
waiting—advised him to take extreme care not to lose
it—and again applied himself to the consideration of Miss
Aurelia's note.

“The fact is,” said Mr. Sansoucy—he always commenced
his soliloquies in this determined and resolute
form, “the fact is, I am beginning to think that there is
going to be some trouble between myself and Aurelia.
Affairs have come to this point now, that I shake all over
when I hear the sound of the door bell rung by my own

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cowardly hand; and when she smiles in her fascinating
way, I experience a wish to slay some dragon or chimera
dire, in her defence. I am accustomed to analyze sensations,
to test emotions; and I have come to the conclusion
that I am in, perhaps, the most dangerous state of mind
possible for a bachelor.

“If I was not,” continued Mr. Sansoucy, smiling faintly,
after a moment's silence, “I don't think I would attach
so much importance to this note. The opera to-night is
Norma, and I certainly had promised myself no inconsiderable
pleasure in exchanging ideas with my Aurelia on
the subject—and here I am disappointed. She will be
greatly obliged, if I will relieve her from her promise—
will she? Is it possible that Heartsease is going to see
her, and she knows it? Heartsease! a perfect fop! really
one of the most shallow men I have ever seen!” said Mr.
Sansoucy, indignantly. “I liked Heartsease once, but it
is of course impossible to respect a man who—well, who
makes love to a man's sweetheart!”

And having thus detected the real reason for his sudden
depreciation of Mr. Heartsease, Sansoucy burst out
laughing. The incident caused him to reflect deeply upon
the point which he had reached, and these reflections were
expressed, ere long, in words.

“Aurelia is changed,” he said, with a sigh; “very
much changed. Indeed, there seems to have taken place
in her own character, exactly that modification—I may
say, that depreciation—which has taken place in mine.
When we parted—”

Mr. Sansoucy sighed again, and forgetting that it was

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in the adjoining room, looked above the mantel-piece for
his picture.

“When we parted,” he continued, “Aurelia and myself
were as ingenuous and simple as ever were two frank
country children. Since that time I have travelled, studied,
read, and `acquired new ideas'—that is to say, I have forgotten
that beautiful country simplicity, and made myself
a careless, laughing, Epicurean philosopher. I enjoy
everything—laugh at everything—believe in very little,
and am slowly becoming a pure dilletanté, a mere creature
of the sunshine, with not one particle of seriousness.
Everything is a jest—every word is an epigram, or tries
to be; what a miserable deterioration!”

And quite sincere in his self-criticism, Mr. Sansoucy's
brow clouded for a moment, and he sighed.

“Well, well,” he said, “at least I have some one to
keep me in countenance! The other actor in those simple
country scenes of that beautiful and honest country youth,
has grown quite as careless and worldly as myself I fear.
What a pity!—what a very great pity!” Ah, if I could
have found in Aurelia something of her former self—if I
could have found the former tenderness, the old time simplicity!
How perfect a corrective all this would have
been to my own unfortunate tendency! But she has
nothing of it—she is as light as thistle down. Puff! I
blow her away. Pity, pity!”

And Mr. Sansoucy sighed from the bottom of his heart.

“The ridiculous thing about all this is,” he murmured,
“that I quarrel with Heartsease, and think it very strange
that Aurelia does not look upon him in his proper light—

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as a man who believes in nothing, cares for nothing, has a
smile of careless good humor for everything, and admires,
of all the animal kingdom, the yellow butterfly of spring.
Why should she regard me, and frown on poor Heartsease?
It 's nothing but jealousy — miserable jealousy—which
makes me quarrel with her. She has a taste for the
Heartseases—they amuse her—their society suits her own
changed self—and I believe she is very much amused with
even my conversation for that very reason. Oh, if she
would only say to me, with her old voice and her old
looks, `Ernest, you have sadly changed—I retain my
freshness of heart and simplicity—you are a man of society,
and worse from the change.' If she would only say
that, I would go and offer her my heart, and love her
devotedly, like an honest gentleman, and dedicate my life
to her. What feeling towards her have I, in place of that
deep devotion—that tenderness, perfect and all-embracing,
which forms the earthly heaven, called true love? Why,
I have a sort of vague and undefined liking—a mere
preference for her society, because her jests amuse me, and
her beauty pleases me;—I go and pass the evening, and
allow her to flirt with me, and come home and light my
cigar, and shrug my shoulders, and say, `Yes, yes! a delightful
girl—very amusing—I must take care, or she 'll
catch me.' Catch me! a miserable phrase; and it shows
too correctly how I regard Aurelia. Aurelia to catch
Ernest—her old loving playmate! Oh, world of vanity,
and hollowness, and folly!”

And Mr. Sansoucy leaned back and sighed. He
remained for half an hour motionless and silent. Then

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he went into his chamber, took down the picture in its
antique frame, and gazed at it long and in silence.

Never had the soft eyes beamed with more tender light;
never had the childish curls, rippling along the brow,
seemed to him to envelope a countenance more pure and
lovely. Another sigh, from the very bottom of his heart,
showed the depth of his feeling.

“Oh! she was frank and simple then—tender and
ingenuous,” he said, in a low voice; “my very being was
her own, inasmuch as my whole heart was. Let me
replace my treasure, and go and try to think she has not
changed entirely:—but I fear for my success. No, no!
I fear that Aurelia never will be the woman to make me
happy. She will wed some man of wealth and fashion—
smile kindly when we meet—and so it will be all arranged
in a way which the world will consider eminently proper:—
and I—but that is nothing. She cares as little for me
as I do for her—we have a little shallow good humor
remaining, and I suppose it will be understood that we
are to keep on this mask, hiding our uncongeniality—
rather our utter and identical change. Well, I'll play
the play—and be “undone,” maybe—and go away smiling
with the arrow in my heart. I'll even go to-night, and
laugh and tell her how much I regret her change of intention
in relation to the opera—and then, as I tell her so
plainly, with a careless laugh she'll think I don't care—
and so it will go on. Well, let it!”

With which vigorous permission to the ambiguous affair
to take its own course, Mr. Sansoucy put on his hat, and
wrapping his overcoat about him, went out.

p506-483

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Perhaps no man ever more completely misunderstood
his own feelings.