Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was no hope for me. She went upstairs, and as I kissed her, said: "Come again to-morrow." Father Dodu remained at table with Sylvain and my foster-brother, and we talked a long time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia. "All men are equal," said Father Dodu between glasses; "I drink with a pastry-cook as readily as with a prince." "Where is the pastry-cook?" I asked. "By your side! There you see a young man who is ambitious to get on in life." My foster-brother appeared embarrassed and I understood the situation. Fate had reserved for me a foster-brother in the very country made famous by Rousseau, who opposed putting children out to nurse! I learned from Father Dodu that there was much talk of a marriage between Sylvie and Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry-shop at Dammartin. I asked no more. Next morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin took me back to Paris. XIII AURÉLIE. To Paris, a journey of five hours! I was impatient for evening, and eight o'clock found me in my accustomed seat Aurélie infused her own spirit and grace into the lines of the play, the work of a contemporary author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the garden scene she was sublime. During the fourth act, when she did not appear, I went out to purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost, slipping into it a tender effusion signed _An Unknown_, "There," thought I, "is something definite for the future," but on the morrow I was on my way to Germany. Why did I go there? In the hope of com-posing my disordered fancy. If I were to write a book, I could never gain credence for the story of a heart torn by these two conflicting loves. I had lost Sylvie through my own fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to restore my soul. A glance from her had arrested me on the verge of the abyss, and henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling goddess in the Temple of Wisdom. I felt more than ever reluctant to present myself before Aurélie among the throng of vulgar suitors who shone in the light of her favour for an instant only to fall blinded. "Some day," said I, "we shall see whether this woman has a heart." One morning I learned from a newspaper that Aurélie was ill, and I wrote to her from the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with German mysticism that I could hardly hope for a reply, indeed I expected none. I left it to chance or ... the _unknown._ Months passed, and in the leisure intervals of travel I undertook to embody in poetic action the life-long devotion of the painter Colonna to the fair Laura who was constrained by her relatives to take the veil. Something in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of thought, and as soon as the last verse of the drama was written, I hastened back to France.