After one of our songs, Leichtberg attacked Fritz on the old score. "Fritz! you very Werter of sentiment! I was amazed to see you with no loves to-night at the opera. Where is the widow with sandy hair? or the actress who gave your _kirschenwasser_ such a benefit? where our sallow-faced friend? or more than all, where may the fair Pole be who sells such charming fruit? Fritz! Fritz! your sudden attachment to grapes is too ominous." "Come, Leichtberg!" said Hartmann, laughing, "this is really not fair. Do you know I think myself very constant, and as to the Pole, I have thought of little else for these three months." "Not so fast! not so fast! Master Hartmann. Was it not on Wednesday week I met you arm in arm with the actress? Were you not waltzing with the widow at the Tivoli? have you not"-- "Come, come!" said Fritz, reddening, "let us say no more. I confess to having made a fool of myself with the actress, but she begged and prayed to see me once more, ere we parted for ever. With this exception----" "Yes, yes!" interrupted Leichtberg, "I know you, Master Fritz, and all your evil doings. Have you heard of our Polish affaire de coeur, Carl?", and he turned to me. "No!" replied I, "let me hear it." "Well, you must know that a certain friend of ours is very economical, and markets for himself. He bargains for fruit and flowers with the peasant girls, and the prettiest always get his orders, and bring up their baskets, and--we will say no more. Well! our friend meets a foreign face, dark eye--Greek contour--and figure indescribable. She brings him home her well arranged bouquets. He swears her lips are redder than her roses--her brow whiter than lilies--and her breath--which he stoops to inhale--far sweeter than her jasmines. To his amazement, the young flower girl sees no such great attractions in the Imperial Guardsman; leaves her nosegays,--throws his Napoleon, which he had asked her to change, in his face,--and makes her indignant exit. Our sentimental friend finds out her home, and half her history;--renews his flattering tales--piques her pride,--rouses her jealousy;--and makes her love him, bon gré--mal gré, better than either fruit or flowers. "Fritz swears eternal constancy, and keeps it, as I have already told you, with the actress and the sandy haired widow." Leichtberg told this story inimitably, and Fritz laughed as much as I did. At length we rose to wish him good night, and saw him turn to his bedroom door, followed by a Swiss dog, which always slept under his bed. The rest of the story we heard from his dying lips. It was as near as he could guess, between two and three in the morning, that he awoke with the impression that some one was near him. For a time he lay restless and ill at ease; with the vague helpless feeling, that often attacks one, after a good supper.