The Temptation. Paris.

When I alighted at the hotel, the porter told me a young woman with a bandbox had been that moment enquiring for me. — I do not know, said the porter, whether she is gone away or not. I took the key of my chamber of him, and went upstairs; and when I had got within ten steps of the top of the landing before my door, I met her coming easily down.

It was the fair fille de chambre I had walked along the Quai de Conti with; Madame de R— had sent her upon some commission to a marchande des modes within a step or two of the Hotel de Modene; and as I had fail’d in waiting upon her, had bid her enquire if I had left Paris; and if so, whether I had not left a letter addressed to her.

As the fair fille de chambre was so near my door, she returned back, and went into the room with me for a moment or two whilst I wrote a card.

It was a fine still evening in the latter end of the month of May, — the crimson window curtains (which were of the same colour as those of the bed) were drawn close:— the sun was setting, and reflected through them so warm a tint into the fair fille de chambre’s face, — I thought she blush’d; — the idea of it made me blush myself:— we were quite alone; and that superinduced a second blush before the first could get off.

There is a sort of a pleasing half guilty blush, where the blood is more in fault than the man:— ’tis sent impetuous from the heart, and virtue flies after it, — not to call it back, but to make the sensation of it more delicious to the nerves: — ’tis associated. —

But I’ll not describe it; — I felt something at first within me which was not in strict unison with the lesson of virtue I had given her the night before. — I sought five minutes for a card; — I knew I had not one. — I took up a pen. — I laid it down again; — my hand trembled:— the devil was in me.

I know as well as any one he is an adversary, whom, if we resist, he will fly from us; — but I seldom resist him at all; from a terror, though I may conquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat; — so I give up the triumph for security; and, instead of thinking to make him fly, I generally fly myself.

The fair fille de chambre came close up to the bureau where I was looking for a card — took up first the pen I cast down, then offer’d to hold me the ink; she offer’d it so sweetly, I was going to accept it; — but I durst not; — I have nothing, my dear, said I, to write upon. — Write it, said she, simply, upon anything. —

I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl! upon thy lips. —

If I do, said I, I shall perish; — so I took her by the hand, and led her to the door, and begg’d she would not forget the lesson I had given her. — She said, indeed she would not; — and, as she uttered it with some earnestness, she turn’d about, and gave me both her hands, closed together, into mine; — it was impossible not to compress them in that situation; — I wish’d to let them go; and all the time I held them, I kept arguing within myself against it, — and still I held them on. — In two minutes I found I had all the battle to fight over again; — and I felt my legs and every limb about me tremble at the idea.

The foot of the bed was within a yard and a half of the place where we were standing. — I had still hold of her hands — and how it happened I can give no account; but I neither ask’d her — nor drew her — nor did I think of the bed; — but so it did happen, we both sat down.

I’ll just show you, said the fair fille de chambre, the little purse I have been making to-day to hold your crown. So she put her hand into her right pocket, which was next me, and felt for it some time — then into the left. — “She had lost it.” — I never bore expectation more quietly; — it was in her right pocket at last; — she pull’d it out; it was of green taffeta, lined with a little bit of white quilted satin, and just big enough to hold the crown: she put it into my hand; — it was pretty; and I held it ten minutes with the back of my hand resting upon her lap — looking sometimes at the purse, sometimes on one side of it.

A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers of my stock; the fair fille de chambre, without saying a word, took out her little housewife, threaded a small needle, and sew’d it up. — I foresaw it would hazard the glory of the day; and, as she pass’d her hand in silence across and across my neck in the manoeuvre, I felt the laurels shake which fancy had wreath’d about my head.

A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle of her shoe was just falling off. — See, said the fille de chambre, holding up her foot. — I could not, for my soul but fasten the buckle in return, and putting in the strap, — and lifting up the other foot with it, when I had done, to see both were right, — in doing it too suddenly, it unavoidably threw the fair fille de chambre off her centre, — and then —