We put up at a quiet auberge in the suburbs--such a place as I usually chose. It was kept by a reverend-looking old man, who told me that he had been a soldier in the wars of the League, and was the comrade of Nicholas Poussin in the regiment of the Vicomte de Tavannes. The moment we entered this auberge, Nicola, as usual, retired to her chamber, and on this occasion without even bestowing on me the sweet smile and farewell bow, or waving to me a kiss with her pretty hand, according to her usual wont when we separated for the long hours that must intervene until the morrow; and this pained me more than I could have believed the coldness or slight of any girl would do--especially a girl in her position. That night I was very sleepless and miserable. Love should be pure, true, and humble; for true love, as the Scripture saith of charity, seeketh not its own; and such, I hope, was mine for this French girl. I watched the chamber where Nicola slept, and listened to her soft breathing through the door, which was slightly ajar. I saw the shadow of her curtained bed thrown by the night lamp across the floor, and I would have given the world (as the phrase is) to peep in and see her dear little face as she slept; but if discovered, the intrusion would have been deemed an unpardonable offence by one so proud, so pure, and modest as Nicola; so I lingered without--listening, watching, and hoping I scarcely knew what. I counted the miles, the days, and hours of our journey, past and those to come; and reckoned the time at which she must leave me--when we would separate, and, too probably, never to meet again. This approaching fate greatly enhanced the delight I felt in the society of Nicola, and I returned to bed, full of strange thoughts. 'Either I am of a singularly inflammable nature,' said I, while turning restlessly on my pillow, 'or by what magic or miracle, other than her beauty, does this girl so fascinate me?' I had asked myself this question a hundred times before. Then there was that proud reserve and occasional constraint of manner, which in a soubrette--and especially the soubrette of so gay a beauty as the Countess d'Amboise--were so difficult of analysis; and for which, even the peculiarity of our positions--a young man and a beautiful young woman, unwedded and unrelated, travelling thus together, and apart from all the world, could not entirely account. Why did I not fall in love with this girl in Paris, when I had a thousand favourable opportunities for entangling her in one of those countless intrigues which make the sum of human life there? Simply, because I had never thought of it when there--and our positions were then altogether different.