To those who wish to be distinguished from the crowd, there is something peculiarly attractive in looking upon themselves as more unhappy than common mortals. I gave myself up to this notion, at first through vanity. But this kind of superiority is by no means cheering, I assure you, so I soon sought consolation. Thank God, I had not far to go. My old friend, Mme. Agnes, was at hand. I sought refuge with her. I speak as if she were advanced in years, but it must be acknowledged she would have seemed a mere child to Methuselah. She was thirty-six years of age; but I was only eighteen, and thought her old. Mme. Agnes lived on a broad and pleasant quay that gently sloped towards a noble river. Not fifty steps from the house rolled the swift current of the Loire. Beyond was an extensive plain from which rose innumerable spires. When I arrived, I found my friend in her usual seat near the window. She was in a large arm-chair, with a table before her, on which were all the materials necessary for a painter of miniatures. Mme. Agnes was renowned in Philopolis as an artist. Her uncommon talent enabled her to support her mother and young sister in a comfortable manner. Alas! poor lady, she had been a paralytic for ten years. According to her custom, she laid aside her work when I entered, and welcomed me with a smile. But this expression of pleasure gave place to one of motherly anxiety when she observed the sad face I wore. “What is the matter, my poor child?” said she. “You have grown frightfully thin.” “I cannot say I am ill,” I replied, “but I am down-hearted, and have so much reason to be, that things cannot continue long in this way: I should die.” Thus saying, I leaned my head against Mme. Agnes’ chair, like a great child as I was, and cried heartily. I had so long restrained my tears!... Mme. Agnes softly placed her hand on my head, and consoled me with a kindness truly maternal. When my explosion of grief had passed away, she made me give her an account of my troubles. I told her, perhaps for the tenth time, what an inclination I had for a literary life, only I was absolutely too poor to embrace it. I added that my duties as a tutor were repugnant; the pupils were insolent and unfeeling; in short, I concealed nothing that afflicted me. At length I ended with these words: “You now see, Mme. Agnes, that I could not be more wretched than I am. This must end. Give me, I beg, some of the good advice I have so many times received from you. Tell me what I must do.” “Have patience, my child, and wait till God makes the way smoother.” “Wait! when one suffers as I do?... When I abhor my position?... When I feel how happy I could be elsewhere!... Ah! Mme. Agnes, if you knew what I have to endure—if you only comprehended my complete despair!” “Poor child, your trials are bitter, I acknowledge; but you are young, capable, and industrious, and will get a better position by-and-by.”