Maria d'Arxel, at one and
twenty, had fallen In love with Giovanni Selva. after having read one of
his books on religious philosophy, translated into French. She wrote to
the unknown author in such ardent words of admiration, that Selva, in
answering, alluded to his fifty-six years and his white hair. The girl
replied that she was aware of both, that she neither offered nor asked
for love, she only craved a few lines from time to time. Her letters
sparkled with brilliant intellect. They came to Selva when he was
passing through a dark crisis, a bitter struggle, which need not be
related here. He thought this Maria d'Arxel might prove his saving star.
He wrote to her again.
"Do you know what anniversary this is?" asked Maria. "Do you remember?"
Giovanni remembered; it was the anniversary of their first meeting.
During the correspondence the two had bared the very depths of their
souls to one another in an inexpressible fervour of sincerity, while as
yet unacquainted save by means of portraits. After they had exchanged
four or five letters, Giovanni asked his unknown correspondent for her
likeness; a request she had expected and dreaded.
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