"I think, then, that the first requirement of happiness is work; the second, success." She sighed. "I accept your definition," she said, "and hope that you may realize it to the full in your own experience. For myself, I have toiled and failed--sought, and found not. Judge, then, how I came to leave the days uncounted." The sadness of her attitude, the melancholy import of her words, the abstraction of her manner, filled me with a vague uneasiness. "Failure is often the forerunner of success," I replied, for want, perhaps, of something better to say. She shook her head drearily, and stood looking up at the sky, where, every now and then, the moon shone out fitfully between the flying clouds. "It is not the first time," she murmured, "nor will it be the last--and yet they say that God is merciful." She had forgotten my presence. These words were not spoken to me, but in answer to her own thoughts. I said nothing, but watched her upturned face. It was pale as the wan moon overhead; thinner than before she went away; and sadder--oh, how much sadder! She roused herself presently, and turning to me, said:--"I beg your pardon. I am very absent; but I am greatly fatigued. I have been travelling incessantly for two days and nights." "Then I will wish you good-night at once," I said. "Good-night," she replied; and went back into her room. The next morning Dr. Chéron smiled one of his cold smiles, and said:-- "You look better to-day, my young friend. I knew how it was with you--no worse malady, after all, than _ennui_. I shall take care to repeat the medicine from time to time." CHAPTER XLV. UNDER THE STARS. Hoping, yet scarcely expecting to see her, I went out upon my balcony the next night at the same hour; but the light of her lamp was bright within, no shadow obscured it, and no window opened. So, after waiting for more than an hour, I gave her up, and returned to my work. I did this for six nights in succession. On the seventh she came. "You are fond of your balcony, fellow-student," said she. "I often hear you out here." "My room gets heated," I replied, "and my eyes weary, after several hours of hard reading; and this keen, clear air puts new life into one's brains." "Yes, it is delicious," said she, looking up into the night. "How dark the space of heaven is, and, how bright are the stars! What a night for the Alps! What a night to be upon some Alpine height, watching the moon through a good telescope, and waiting for the sunrise!" "Defer that wish for a few months," I replied smiling. "You would scarcely like Switzerland in her winter robes." "Nay, I prefer Switzerland in winter," she said. "I passed through part of the Jura about ten days ago, and saw nothing but snow. It was magnificent--like a paradise of pure marble awaiting the souls of all the sculptors of all the ages." "A fantastic idea," said I, "and spoken like an artist." "Like an artist!" she repeated, musingly. "Well, are not all students artists?"