France Lost A Great Novel Last Night.

Never Had The Sky Been More Studded With Stars And More Charming, The Trees More Trembling, The Odor Of The Grass More Penetrating; Never Had The Birds Fallen Asleep Among The Leaves With A Sweeter Noise; Never Had All The Harmonies Of Universal Serenity Responded More Thoroughly To The Inward Music Of Love; Never Had Marius Been More Captivated, More Happy, More Ecstatic.

Not Ill? No Truly, I Am Young, Healthful, And Strong; The Blood Flows Freely In My Veins; My Limbs Obey My Will; I Am Robust In Mind And Body, Constituted For A Long Life. Yes, All This Is True; And Yet, Nevertheless, I Have An Illness, A Fatal Illness,-an Illness Given By The Hand Of Man!

Happiness Lies For Those Who Cry, Those Who Hurt, Those Who Have Searched, And Those Who Have Tried For Only They Can Appreciate The Importance Of People Who Have Touched Their Lives.

A Translation In Verse . . . Seems To Me Something Absurd, Impossible.

No One Knows Like A Woman How To Say Things Which Are At Once Gentle And Deep.