Just as I write this pledge of our betrothal a nightingale in the Vilquin park answers for thee.

Ah, tell me quick that his note, so pure, so clear, so full, which fills my heart with joy and love like an Annunciation, does not lie to me.
My father will pass through Paris on his way from Marseilles; the house of Mongenod, with whom he corresponds, will know his address.

Go to him, my Melchior, tell him that you love me; but do not try to tell him how I love you,--let that be forever between ourselves and God.

I, my dear one, am about to tell everything to my mother.

Her heart will justify my conduct; she will rejoice in our secret poem, so romantic, human and divine in one.
You have the confession of the daughter; you must now obtain the consent of the Comte de La Bastie, father of your Modeste.
P.S .-- Above all, do not come to Havre without having first obtained my father's consent.