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462 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP
correspondence, which occupied but a day in each week, and he
had the other six—nay, he scribbled on the seventh day likewise,
and covered immense sheets of letter-paper with remarks upon all
manner of subjects, addressed to a certain Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle
Baynes, chez M. le Major Mac, &c. On these sheets of
paper Mr. Firmin could talk so long, so loudly, so fervently, so
eloquently to Miss Baynes, that she was never tired of hearing, or
he of holding forth. He began imparting his dreams and his earliest
sensations to his beloved before breakfast. At noon-day he gave
her his opinion of the contents of the morning papers. His packet
was ordinarily full and brimming over by post time, so that his
expressions of love and fidelity leaked from under the cover, or were
squeezed into the queerest corners, where, no doubt, it was a delightful
task for Miss Baynes to trace out and detect those little Cupids
which a faithful lover despatched to her. It would be, " I have
found this little corner unoccupied. Do you know what I have to
say in it 1 Oh, Charlotte, I," &c. &c. My sweet young lady, you
can guess, or will one day guess, the rest ; and will receive such
dear, delightful, nonsensical double letters, and will answer them
with that elegant propriety which I have no doubt Miss Baynes
showed in her replies. Ah ! if all who are writing and receiving
such letters, or who have written and received such, or who remember
writing and receiving such letters, would order a copy of this
novel from the publishers, what reams, and piles, and pyramids of
paper our ink would have to blacken ! 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 delights 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.
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. 0 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 ? O 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 " Hotel Poussin " was in a commotion. I
have said that when our friend felt any passion very strongly he
was sure to speak of it. Did Don Quixote lose any opportunity of