It was the first time in my life that I had ever addressed a compliment to a female. Indeed, it was the first time that I had been in conversation with a girl at all. Up to this time, I had scarcely given women a moment’s consideration. Directly I told my name to the young girl, her face, which had before been amiable, brightened into a look of friendship. “I know you,” said she; “you worked for M. Drouet; my father has mentioned you to his workmen, more than once, as an example to be followed. Do stay; he will be glad to see you.” On looking around me, I perceived a harpsichord. “You are a musician, I perceive, mademoiselle.” “Oh, Monsieur Réné, you must not call me that. The organist of St. Gengoulf has given me a few lessons; and, as he says I have some voice, I practise singing to amuse myself.” “Mademoiselle,” said I, “can you believe that I have never heard the sound of a harpsichord, or any song, but that of the washerwomen, as they beat their linen? Will you sing something for me as well as yourself, and I shall be completely happy?” “With the greatest pleasure,” she replied. And rising up, she crossed over to the harpsichord; and, after a simple prelude, she sang— “How sad to me the day When thou art far away!” Every one knows that pretty romance, the “Devin de Village.” But it had never seemed so charming to me as when issuing from the lips of my pretty songstress. Mademoiselle Gerbaut had sang very simply, but with that coquetry so natural to women. Her face was variable; and as she sang without accompaniment, leaning slightly back in her chair, her half-closed eyes gave a somewhat sentimental expression to the rest of her face. Her mouth was beautifully formed, she spoke almost without any perceptible movement of the lips, and you saw, at the first glance, that what she said was neither artificial nor constrained. I was delighted with her. I said nothing, but my looks spoke more than words could have done. “Mademoiselle,” said I, not being able, in my enthusiasm, to think of anything else, “have you read ‘Emile?’” “No, monsieur,” she replied; “but my mother has read it, and that is why I am named Sophie.” “You are named Sophie!” cried I, seizing her hand, and pressing it to my heart; “now I am completely happy!” She looked at me with an astonished smile. “And why are you so happy because my name is Sophie?” said she. “Because now I can look upon you as a sister more than a stranger. Oh, Sophie—dear Sophie!” Sophie regarded me with a more astonished expression of face than ever; and I know not what she might have said, had not M. Gerbaut made his appearance at that moment. “Ah! is that you, Réné?” said he; “you are, indeed, welcome. I asked the news from your friends on the Place there, and when they told me that you were at Varennes, I knew you would not go without calling to see me.”