“She is a good girl, after all,” said her father. “A good girl, M. Gerbaut? Say, rather, an angel!” “Angels are not so common as all that, my boy. But,” continued he, leading me along the corridor, and opening a door, “here is your room, not only for to-night, but for ever, if you will enter into my service. You shall have board and lodging, and twenty-five crowns a month. Do you hear me?” I shook him by the hand, and thanked him for his kindness. He then wished me to come down stairs again, to drink a glass to the health of the nation. But I pleaded fatigue, and want of sleep, and entered my chamber. The real reason why I did not comply with his offer, was that I wished to be alone. I shut the door, for I was afraid that any one might come and look for me. But there was no fear of that. Every one was so busy enjoying himself, that they had no time to think of aught else. I threw myself on the bed, and thought of Sophie. M. Drouet had given me a sincere liking for intellectual existence, but Sophie awakened in me another kind of existence, that of love; and I felt, for the first time, that indescribable, but pleasurable sensation, which predicts the dawning of that passion. A new future opened before me. This was the scene. A happy, though, perhaps, a humble home, with a careful and a beloved wife. I could see myself, at set of sun, walking by the river’s side, her heart beating against mine. I could fancy delaying under the tall trees, to hear the blackbird’s song. In a word, this dream of the future was that twofold life which, till then, had never engaged my boyish thoughts. Now, I seemed to have taken one step into this fairyland; and, although I trembled still, I would fain go on. What, then, prevented me, I asked myself, from making this dream a reality? Why did I not at once close with M. Gerbaut’s offer? It was because my heart misgave me. I thought of Sophie’s evident leaning towards men of a higher class; I reflected that, to her, I must be a mere boy. And I groaned in spirit that I was not half a dozen years older. At daybreak, the reveillé was beaten. My comrade had passed the night on the Place and in the streets, dancing and drinking. I jumped from my couch, and, having hastily dressed myself, crept on tip-toe to the door of Sophie’s chamber, wishing to say adieu, even if only through the key-hole. I had trodden as lightly as possible, scarcely hearing my own footsteps; and how great was my astonishment on seeing the door open a little way, and a hand put out. It was easy to see, through the crevice from which the hand was protruded, that Sophie had not retired to rest at all; or, if she had, that she had not undressed herself. I seized the hand, and pressed it to my lips. She withdrew it, leaving, at the same time, a little billet in mine, and quickly closed the door. I could scarcely believe my eyes. I approached a window, and, by the light of early dawn, read these words:—