How would Mme. la Marquise have received this ardent epistle? which had perhaps done him good service already more than once. Would she have looked favourably upon her humble suitor?—who can tell?—for the feminine heart is past comprehension. Unfortunately the letter did not reach her. Being entirely taken up with great ladies, Leander overlooked their waiting-maids, and did not trouble himself to show them any attentions or gallantries—wherein he made a sad mistake—for if the _pistoles_ he gave to Jeanne, with his precious epistle, had been supplemented by a few kisses and compliments, she would have taken far more pains to execute his commission. As she held the letter carelessly in her hand, the marquis chanced to pass by, and asked her idly what she had got there.
“Oh! nothing much,” she answered scornfully, “only a note from Mr. Leander to Mme. la Marquise.”
“From Leander? that jackanapes who plays the lover in the Rodomontades of Captain Matamore? What in the world can _he_ have to say to Mme. la Marquise? Doubtless he asks for a gratuity!”
“I don’t think so,” said the spiteful waiting-maid; “when he gave me this letter he sighed, and rolled up his eyes like a love-sick swain.”
“Give me the letter,” said the marquis, “_I_ will answer it—and don’t say anything about it to your mistress. Such chaps are apt to be impertinent—they are spoiled by admiration, and sometimes presume upon it.”
The marquis, who dearly loved a joke, amused himself by answering Leander’s extraordinary epistle with one in much the same style—written in a delicate, lady-like hand upon perfumed paper, and sealed with a fanciful device—altogether a production well calculated to deceive the poor devil, and confirm him in his ridiculous fancies. Accordingly, when he regained his bed-chamber after the play was over, he found upon his dressing-table a note addressed to himself. He hastened to open it, trembling from head to foot with excitement and delight, and read as follows: “It is true, as you say so eloquently—too eloquently for my peace of mind—that goddesses can only love mortals. At eleven o’clock, when all the world is sunk in slumber, and no prying human eyes open to gaze upon her, Diana will quit her place in the skies above and descend to earth, to visit the gentle shepherd, Endymion—not upon Mount Latmus, but in the park—at the foot of the statue of silent love. The handsome shepherd must be sure to have fallen asleep ere Diana appears, so as not to shock the modesty of the immortal goddess—who will come without her cortege of nymphs, wrapped in a cloud and devoid of her silvery radiance.”